JLAND  ARS. 
VILLIERS 


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MR  AND   MRS  VILLIERS 


Mr  and  Mrs  Villiers 


BY 
HUBERT    WALES 

Author  of  "The  Yoke" 


NEW   YORK 

THE   STUYVESANT   PRESS 

1908 


Copyright,  1908,  by 

THE  STUYVESANT   PRESS 

NBW  YOBK 


FORTHCOMING   PUBLICATION 

The  Tree  of  Knowledge 

By 

A  Woman 

There  could  be  no  excuse  for  giving  to  the  world 
this  diary  of  disillusion  but  the  fact  that  it  is  a 
record  of  actual  experience. 

Both  the  professed  critic  and  the  amateur  of  let- 
ters will  recognise  that  no  one  could  have  written  so 
vivid  a  log  of  a  shipwrecked  life  but  the  woman 
who  had  lived  it.  No  one  but  Marie  Bashkirtseff 
could  have  given  us  the  famous  "Journal."  Here 
we  have  a  self -revelation  even  more  valuable  to  the 
psychologist.  Marie  Bashkirtseff's  existence  was  a 
series  of  poses.  She  posed  to  herself  even  more 
than  to  others.  The  woman  who  dissects  her  soul 
in  these  vibrant  pages  is,  so  far  as  can  be  judged, 
entirely  frank. 

This  is  not  her  only  merit,  for  her  delight  in  the 
color  and  flexibility  of  language  lends  an  exotic 
charm  which,  like  the  scent  of  orchids,  fatigues  and 
delights  the  sense.  Here  we  have  set  naked  before 
us  the  nature  of  a  woman  steeped  in  the  poisonous 
juices  that  distil  from  the  fruit  of  the  Tree  of 

2138768 


Knowledge.  She  is  abnormal,  a  decadent,  a 
"sport,"  even.  Yet  she  represents  only  the  extreme 
of  a  type  of  women  which  the  conditions  of  the  age 
tend  to  produce.  Her  motto  is  the  motto  of  Magda, 
lo  sono  io;  her  desires,  Pleasure  and  Experience,  if 
possible,  combined.  Seeing  that  she  has  no  stand- 
ards of  right  and  wrong,  it  would  be  inaccurate  to 
call  her  immoral.  She  is  literally  non-moral.  Mo- 
rality is  to  her  nothing  but  a  convention ;  Religion, 
merely  a  frame  of  mind. 

Her  diary  is  "not  for  little  people  nor  for  fools." 
It  is  a  document  to  be  studied  with  scientific  curi- 
osity by  those  whose  interest  lies  in  sounding  the 
hidden  depths  of  human  character.  Women  will 
understand  the  writer  best — those,  at  any  rate,  who 
understand  themselves.  These  will  judge  her  less 
harshly  than  men. 

READY   MAY   FIRST 

The  Tree  of  Knowledge 

I2mo,  $1.50 


THE   STU  YVES  ANT    PRESS 

PUBLISHERS 
43  WEST  ZJTH  STREET,  NEW  YORK 


FOREWORD 

The  enthusiastic  reception  accorded  THE  YOKE 
augurs  well  for  the  immediate  popularity  of  MR. 
AND  MRS.  VlLLIERS. 

In  this  story,  as  in  THE  YOKE,  certain  phases 
of  the  sex-problem  are  considered:  difficulties  not 
infrequently  encountered  in  the  married  state. 

Man  is  naturally  the  aggressor  in  the  connubial 
relations.  His  desires  and  passions  are  more  posi- 
tive than  woman's.  Women  of  unusual  mental  and 
physical  charms  are  often  found  renitent  and  lack- 
ing in  the  disposition  which  makes  for  perfect  con- 
jugal happiness.  Such  women  have  little  difficulty 
in  marrying,  although  entirely  unfitted  for  the  mar- 
riage relation.  Mrs  Filliers  is  a  woman  of  this 
type. 

The  story  is  a  fair  and  legitimate  study  of  oppo- 
site temperaments.  It  is  intensely  realistic,  and  the 
difficult  problem,  which  is  by  no  means  rare  in  real 
life,  has  been  handled  with  dignity  and  with  such 
restraint  as  not  to  offend. 

FRANKLIN  FOSTER, 


Mr  and   Mrs  Villiers 

CHAPTER  I 

MR  AND  MRS  NORMAN  VILLIERS  had  come  to 
be  regarded  by  their  neighbours  at  Weybridge,  and 
by  their  relatives  and  acquaintance  in  other  parts 
of  the  world,  as  a  couple  who  found  the  path  of 
matrimony  unusually  free  from  thorns.  Without 
being  given  to  effusive  displays  of  tenderness,  their 
demeanour  one  to  the  other  was  always  kindly 
affectionate,  their  mutual  conversation  always 
courteous  and  charged  with  quiet  esteem.  Not  the 
most  intimate  of  their  friends  could  point  to  an 
instance  of  any  domestic  jar  which  had  served,  even 
momentarily,  to  interrupt  the  easy  flow  of  their 
conjugal  intercourse. 

This  general  estimate,  for  all  that,  was  far  in- 
deed from  reaching  the  truth.  A  rift  had  separated 
them  on  the  day  of  their  marriage — a  rift  unsus- 
pected even  by  Marjorie  Villiers  herself.  It  had 

1 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

widened  and  continued  to  widen,  month  on  month 
and  year  on  year,  until,  at  the  time  when  we  make 
their  acquaintance,  it  had  become  a  fissure,  which 
yawned  between  them,  deep,  broad,  and  hardly  to 
be  bridged. 

The  existence  of  this  secret  cause  of  disunion 
had  been  kept  by  Norman  Villiers,  during  the 
eight  years  of  his  marriage,  closely  locked  within 
his  own  soul.  He  was  a  man  from  whose  appear- 
ance the  possession  of  this  quality  of  reserve,  even 
in  a  marked  degree,  would  have  been  supposed. 
Not  that  he  was  morose,  or  peculiarly  imperturb- 
able; his  clean-shaven  face  merely  indicated  com- 
plete self-reliance.  Other  points  in  his  general  as- 
pect distinguished  him  from  his  fellows.  He  was 
thirty-five,  tall,  and  proportionately  muscular,  by 
no  means  ill-looking,  but,  as  we  see  him  sitting  in 
his  study  one  evening  in  late  October,  somewhat 
unkempt  and  untidy.  He  was  wearing  morning 
dress  though  he  had  dined  some  hours  previously, 
his  shirt-cuffs  and  his  trousers  were  both  slightly 
frayed  at  the  edges,  and  his  black  hair  was  too 
long  and  insufficiently  brushed.  The  assured 
searching  light  in  his  eyes  indicated  an  intellectual 
man ;  the  papers  on  the  desk  beside  him  particular- 


MR   AND   MRS   FILLIERS 

ised  a  literary  one.  He  had  begun  life  as  a  journal- 
ist, but  had  drifted  latterly  into  the  calmer  waters  of 
creative  work.  The  success  of  his  first  novel  had  been 
mainly  responsible  for  the  change;  the  two  others 
which  had  subsequently  issued  from  his  pen,  with- 
out achieving  the  brilliant  results  he  had  possibly 
hoped  for,  had  done  much  to  establish  him  on  a 
firm  basis  in  the  public  favour. 

To-night,  however,  he  was  not  writing.  He  had 
drawn  a  low  chair  before  the  fire  and  was  seated  in 
it,  smoking  and  staring  into  the  blaze.  As  he 
finished  a  cigar,  he  threw  the  stump  into  the  grate 
and  took  another  from  a  box  beside  him,  without 
apparently  being  conscious  of  his  act.  Norman 
Villiers,  indeed,  had  come  to  a  crisis  in  his  life; 
his  thoughts  were  far  from  his  bodily  surroundings. 
Not  that  he  was  now  engaged  in  the  throes  of 
mental  conflict,  debating  the  chances  of  two  diver- 
gent paths.  That  was  over:  his  Rubicon  was 
crossed,  though  his  boats  remained  still  intact  be- 
hind him.  He  had  no  thoughts  of  returning,  how- 
ever. A  decision  once  formed,  his  principle  was 
to  abide  by  it  rigidly.  He  was  merely  waiting  to 
continue  his  march  and  to  watch  the  issue. 

As  he  smoked,  he  was  dimly  conscious  of  certain 
3 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

familiar  sounds  in  the  house.  Someone  passed  the 
door  with  a  tray  and  returned;  he  heard  a  slight 
jingle  of  silver  as  a  maid  carried  the  table  plate 
upstairs.  Then  came  a  short  period  of  silence,  to 
be  followed  by  the  rasp  and  jar  of  closing  windows 
and  a  subdued  murmur  of  voices  as  the  servants 
ascended  the  stairs  on  their  way  to  bed.  A  longer 
pause  succeeded.  It  seemed  longer  than  it  really 
was  to  Villiers;  for  though  he  did  not  stir  from 
his  easy  position  before  the  fire,  and  kept  a  cigar 
still  wedged  between  his  lips,  he  was  now  listening 
intently  for  the  sound  which  would  terminate  it. 
It  came  as  the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  pointed  to 
eleven.  The  drawing-room  door  opened  and  shut, 
and  a  skirt  rustled  across  the  hall.  The  next 
moment  his  wife  looked  into  the  room.  She  held 
some  books  in  her  hand  and  had  gathered  up  the 
front  of  her  dress  to  go  upstairs.  "Don't  be  late, 
dear,"  she  said  almost  mechanically;  and  he 
answered,  without  turning  his  head,  as  he  had 
answered — no  more  falsely — a  hundred  times  be- 
fore, "No,  dear";  and  then  the  door  closed  and  the 
skirt  rustled  away  again.  A  very  simple  incident; 
but  it  was  sufficient  to  bring  a  lump  into  Norman's 
throat  and  to  strike  deep  at  the  foundation  of  the 

4 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

resolve  he  had  believed  so  impregnably  established. 
For  the  brief  moment  that  his  wife  had  remained 
in  the  room  the  future  course  of  his  life  and  hers 
had  hung  in  the  balance. 

You  would  not  have  remarked  on  his  face  any 
sign  of  the  severe  mental  struggle  he  had  passed 
through.  It  still  retained  the  same  thoughtful,  al- 
most rapt,  expression  as  he  gazed  into  the  flames. 
He  waited  calmly  until  he  heard  a  bedroom  door 
click  on  the  floor  above,  then  he  threw  the  remains 
of  his  last  cigar  into  the  fire  and  rose  from  his 
seat.  He  went  round  the  house,  extinguished  all 
the  lights  that  were  still  burning,  and  returned 
to  the  study.  A  spirit-stand  stood  upon  a  small 
table,  and  from  this  he  carefully  mixed  himself  a 
glass  of  weak  whisky-and-water,  which  he  placed 
upon  his  desk.  He  was  actuated  more  by  habit  than 
inclination ;  his  use  of  alcohol  was  of  the  slightest, 
and  often  he  worked  through  the  small  hours  to 
find  his  modicum  still  untasted  at  the  end.  Hav- 
ing seated  himself  at  the  desk,  he  collected  the 
litter  of  papers  upon  it  and  placed  them  in  a  neat 
heap  at  the  side;  then  he  turned  up  the  lamp,  took 
out  a  clean  sheet  and  began  to  write  on  it  in  pencil. 
Apparently  he  found  his  task  a  difficult  one,  for 

5 


MR   AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

he  wrote  slowly  and  with  frequent  erasures  and 
interlineations.  Once,  with  a  slight  indication  of 
irritability,  he  scrawled  out  the  entire  jumble  of 
lines  and  began  again  beneath  them.  It  occupied 
him  two  hours  to  complete  a  draft  to  his  satisfac- 
tion. At  the  end  of  that  time  he  had  filled  three 
sheets  of  sermon-paper  with  close  pencilled  lines. 
He  took  a  turn  about  the  room  with  the  paper  in 
his  hand,  and  then  sat  down  once  more  and  made 
a  fair  copy  of  it  in  ink.  This  he  placed  in  an  en- 
velope, sealed,  and  addressed  to  his  wife. 

His  task  finished,  he  returned  to  his  place  by 
the  fire,  and  stirred  the  dying  embers  into  a  blaze. 
He  remained  long  leaning  over  it,  mechanically 
prodding  the  charred  coals,  deeply  lost  in  thought. 
The  flames,  as  they  flickered  and  fell,  threw  his 
features  into  relief.  They  were  difficult  to  read. 
There  was  intellect  in  the  brow,  gentleness  in  the 
eyes,  dignity  in  the  nose,  but  something  in  the 
slightly  accentuated  lips  which  served  in  a  measure 
to  mar  the  harmony  of  the  whole.  An  observer 
who  might  have  been  watching  him  as  he  sat  would 
have  known  that  he  saw  a  capable  man,  he 
would  have  known  that  he  saw  a  benevolent  and 
a  just  man;  whether  he  saw  a  completely  good  man 

6 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

he  would  have  been  left  in  doubt.  Presently  he 
rose  and  cautiously  opened  the  door,  throwing  a 
stream  of  yellow  light  into  the  hall.  He  listened 
intently  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  picked  up 
the  letter  he  had  written  and  took  it  into  the  din- 
ing-room. He  dropped  it  in  a  prominent  position 
on  the  mantelpiece.  As  he  re-crossed  the  hall  to 
the  study  a  small  clock  on  a  cabinet  tinkled 
twice. 

The  lateness  of  the  hour  appeared  to  surprise 
him,  and  henceforth  his  movements  quickened. 
Going  to  the  front  door,  he  opened  it  and  looked 
out.  It  was  a  clammy  night;  heavy  banks  of  cloud 
rolled  slowly  and  incessantly  over  a  glimmering 
moon;  a  slight  breeze  was  moving,  and  a  feel  of 
impending  rain  was  in  the  air.  Apparently  satis- 
fied by  his  survey,  Villiers  presently  re-entered  his 
room  and  proceeded  to  an  examination  of  his  book- 
shelves. After  some  hesitation,  he  selected  several 
volumes  and  carried  them  out  of  the  house  and 
along  one  of  the  grass  margins  which  bordered  the 
path,  eventually  depositing  them  beside  the  gate. 
He  went  back  for  a  second  load,  and  then  for 
another  and  another.  It  took  him  some  time  to 
make  a  selection  for  this  purpose,  but  his  move- 

7 


ments  throughout  were  swift  and  noiseless.  In 
due  course  there  were  three  tall  piles  standing  by 
the  gate.  Villiers  assured  himself  that  they  were 
sufficiently  hidden  from  the  eyes  of  any  belated 
pedestrian  by  a  screen  of  shrub,  and  then  returned 
finally  to  the  house  and  closed  the  door  behind 
him. 

It  was  now  three  o'clock,  but  his  night's  work 
was  still  far  from  complete.  He  removed  his  shoes 
and  stealthily  ascended  to  the  dressing-room  where 
he  slept.  Here  he  packed  a  bag  with  some  clothes, 
and  a  few  minutes  later  emerged  again  upon  the 
corridor.  The  house  was  completely  still;  even 
the  slight  ticking  of  the  hall  clock  was  now  too  dis- 
tant to  break  the  silence.  He  listened  some  mo- 
ments at  the  door  of  a  neighbouring  room,  and 
then,  with  the  utmost  caution,  turned  the  handle 
and  went  in.  It  was  faintly  illumined  by  a  shaded 
night-light.  At  the  further  end  two  little  girls  of 
six  and  seven  were  asleep  in  two  little  cribs.  Vil- 
liers lighted  a  candle  and  carried  it  towards  them, 
screening  the  flame  with  his  hand.  As  the  beam 
fell  over  the  beds  they  stirred  slightly,  but  did  not 
awake.  He  stood  long  watching  them,  listening 
to  their  even  breathing.  One  lay  with  a  small, 

8 


MR  AND   MRS   VILLIERS 

soft  arm  outside  the  bed-clothes.  This  he  gently 
covered,  and  then  kissed  them  each  in  turn  without 
breaking  their  sleep.  A  door  communicating  with 
an  adjoining  apartment  was  near  the  cribs  and 
stood  ajar.  Norman  looked  at  this  and  moved 
a  step  towards  it,  then  hesitated,  and  finally  turned 
and  went  out  by  the  same  at  which  he  had  entered. 
He  extinguished  the  candle  and  descended  once 
more  to  the  ground  floor,  carrying  his  bag. 

Entering  one  of  the  front  rooms,  he  drew  aside 
the  window-blind  and  stood  for  some  moments 
looking  out.  The  signs  of  increasing  restless  anx- 
iety were  beginning  to  manifest  themselves  upon 
his  usually  calm  face.  His  ears  were  straining  to 
catch  some  expected  sound,  and  this  caused  him 
to  start  at  the  smallest  interruption  of  the  univer- 
sal silence — the  creak  of  a  piece  of  furniture,  the 
fall  of  a  cinder  in  the  hearth.  He  glanced  re- 
peatedly at  the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece,  and  paced 
the  room  at  intervals  with  stealthy  but  uneasy  tread, 
biting  his  underlip  till  the  blood  showed  beneath 
the  skin.  A  little  after  four  the  noise  for  which 
he  was  waiting  broke  into  the  stillness.  A  rumble 
of  wheels  became  audible  in  the  distance,  and  pres- 
ently a  closed  fly  drew  up  at  the  gate. 

9 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

Villiers  put  on  his  hat  and  overcoat,  and,  taking 
his  bag,  went  quietly  out  of  the  house,  closing  the 
door  with  a  latch-key  to  avoid  a  jar.  He  assisted 
the  driver  to  pack  the  books  inside  the  vehicle. 
Then  he  placed  his  bag  upon  the  top  of  them  and 
seated  himself  in  the  small  space  that  still  re- 
mained. These  preparations  occupied  but  a  very 
few  minutes.  The  coachman  was  apparently  aware 
of  his  destination,  for  he  closed  the  door  without 
speaking  to  Villiers,  and  mounting  the  box, 
wrapped  a  horse-rug  about  his  knees  and  started 
on  his  journey.  The  wheels  crunched  loudly  on 
the  heavy  road,  then  slowly  creaked  and  rumbled 
into  the  distance  and  died  away.  The  breeze  blew 
fitfully,  the  moon  still  gleamed  through  drifting 
cloud,  and  beneath  it,  darkly  outlined,  lay  the  sleep- 
ing house,  all  unconscious  that  its  master  had  left 
it  and  would  not  return. 


10 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  next  morning  dawned  misty  and  overcast. 
Marjorie  Villiers  looked  from  her  window,  as  she 
dressed,  upon  sodden  patches  of  garden,  dripping 
with  condensing  vapour.  Possibly  the  cheerless 
scene  affected  her  spirits;  at  any  rate,  there  was 
observable  in  her  manner,  as  she  moved  to  and  fro, 
some  sign  of  irritability.  One  of  the  children  in 
the  adjoining  room  was  resenting  its  nurse's  minis- 
trations, and  occasionally  burst  in  upon  her  with 
a  petulant  complaint,  which  served  further  to  ruffle 
her  equanimity.  The  child  was  chidden  and  sent 
away;  then  recalled  and  kissed;  to  be  chided  again; 
and  again  forgiven  on  a  subsequent  outbreak. 
These  interruptions  prolonged  her  toilet  beyond  its 
usual  limits,  so  that  it  was  considerably  after  half- 
past  eight  when  she  finally  descended  the  stairs. 

Though  approaching  thirty,  she  retained  the  tall, 
slim  figure  of  her  girlhood.  A  soft,  oval  face  and 
deep,  dark  eyes  indicated  a  loving  and  lovable  dis- 

11 


position,  an  indication  so  strongly  marked  as  to 
clothe  her  aspect  of  itself  with  a  peculiar  charm. 
No  stranger,  on  seeing  her  for  the  first  time,  would 
have  pronounced  her  a  pretty  woman,  or  even  have 
admitted  the  fact  on  its  being  suggested  to  him; 
for  somehow  she  failed  to  make  the  most  of  the 
attractions  she  undoubtedly  possessed.  Her  dark- 
brown  hair  was  drawn  loosely  back  from  her  fore- 
head without  wave  or  curl ;  her  grey  morning  gown 
was  of  the  simplest  workmanship  and  material. 
Unaffected,  quietly  religious,  both  by  nature  and 
training,  she  gave  small  thought  to  human  artifices 
to  improve  the  handiwork  of  her  Maker.  Never- 
theless, her  features,  if  a  trifle  pointed,  were  good 
ones;  her  form,  though  slightly  inclined  to  stoop, 
graceful  and  elegant.  Many  a  woman  with  fewer 
natural  advantages  has  gained  a  reputation  for 
beauty. 

When  she  entered  the  dining-room,  the  two 
children  were  already  seated  at  their  breakfast. 
Her  husband's  absence  caused  her  no  surprise;  it 
was  his  custom  to  take  his  morning  meal  at  a  later 
hour  than  the  rest  of  the  family.  She  took  in  at 
a  glance  the  arrangements  which  had  been  made 
to  satisfy  the  bodily  needs  of  her  offspring. 

12 


MR  AND  MRS   V1LLIERS 

"Sybil,"  she  exclaimed  sharply  to  the  younger, 
"why  are  you  eating  sausage?  You  know  you  are 
not  allowed  it.  Nurse,  why  has  Miss  Sybil  been 
given  sausage?" 

The  nurse's  reply  was  inarticulate,  but  appar- 
ently expostulatory,  and  she  was  summarily  dis- 
missed. Marjorie,  with  her  own  hands,  removed 
the  offending  delicacy,  opened  an  egg  and  placed 
it  in  front  of  Sybil,  dried  her  protesting  tears,  and 
at  last  seated  herself  behind  the  coffee-pot  and  took 
up  her  letters.  As  she  did  so,  she  glanced  auto- 
matically at  the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece.  Her  at- 
tention was  at  once  arrested  by  the  note  which  stood 
there.  She  recognised  her  husband's  handwriting, 
and  a  look  of  perplexity,  of  incredulity  came  into 
her  face,  changing  slowly  to  vague  alarm,  and  then 
to  definite  dread.  She  sprang  quickly  from  her 
seat,  snatched  at  the  letter  and  tore  open  the  en- 
velope with  trembling  fingers.  She  read  the  open- 
ing lines,  and  could  read  no  more.  Her  whole 
frame  quivered,  her  lips  uttered  a  half-choked  cry 
of  pain,  and  she  clutched  at  the  nearest  object  for 
support.  Her  face  had  blanched  and  her  eyes  held 
a  look  of  mute  anguish. 

The  two  children  had  ceased  eating  and  were 
13 


MR  AND   MRS   VILLIERS 

gazing  at  her  with  solemn  surprise.  They  knew 
well  enough  that  something  was  wrong,  and  pres- 
ently one  of  them  slipped  from  her  chair  and  ran 
to  the  object  of  her  concern.  She  wrapped  her  tiny 
arms  as  far  as  they  would  go  around  her  skirts  and 
clung  to  her  appealingly. 

"Mummy!  mummy!"  she  cried,  "kiss  me."  It 
was  the  only  means  which  her  childish  intelligence 
suggested  to  bring  back  to  the  familiar  features 
their  natural  look. 

Marjorie  took  no  notice  at  first,  but,  after  a  time, 
the  child's  repeated  calls  and  plaintive  appeals  to 
be  kissed  broke  a  way  into  her  brain  and  reawak- 
ened her  numbed  faculties.  She  smoothed,  half 
mechanically,  the  glossy  curls,  and  then  stooped 
and  kissed  the  little  upturned  anxious  face. 

"Go  and  sit  down,  darling,"  she  said.  "Mother 
is  not  very  well.  Nurse  shall  give  you  your  break- 
fast." 

She  recalled  the  nurse,  and  giving  the  children 
into  her  charge,  went  into  an  adjoining  room.  This 
was  Norman's  study.  The  fire  had  been  lighted 
for  him;  his  newspaper  was  placed  upon  the  table; 
even  his  boots,  glossily  polished,  stood  near  his 
favourite  chair.  Marjorie  had  a  sudden  wild  hope 

14 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

that,  somehow,  the  letter  was  a  mistake,  a  hoax, 
that  presently  he  would  come  down  the  stairs  and 
greet  her  with  his  customary  morning  kiss  and 
hasty,  kindly  word.  The  next  moment  her  glance 
fell  on  the  depleted  book-shelves,  and  the  little 
beam  faded  before  it  had  warmed  her.  She  sat 
down,  spread  out  the  letter  upon  the  desk  at  which 
it  had  been  written,  and  forced  herself  to  read  it 
from  the  first  word  to  the  last.  Its  contents  were 
these : 

"My  DEAR  MARJORIE, — I  use  no  more  inti- 
mate form  of  address,  not  because  I  think  of  you 
less  affectionately  than  I  have  always  done,  but  be- 
cause, in  the  light  of  what  I  am  going  to  write,  it 
would  seem  an  impertinence  which  you  would  have 
a  right  to  resent.  Before  you  read  this  I  shall  have 
left  you — slunk  away  like  a  coward  in  the  night. 
The  fact  that  I  am  able  to  do  so  will,  I  hope,  con- 
vince you  how  little  there  is  to  regret  in  my  worth- 
less bones. 

"I  am  going  because  I  find  it  no  longer  possible 
to  endure  life  in  the  conditions  which  you  have 
tacitly  laid  down.  We  have  been  married  eight 
years,  but  during  that  time,  except  in  a  very  im- 

15 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

perfect  sense  in  the  early  years,  we  have  not  been 
man  and  wife.  We  have  lived  in  complete  physical 
disunion.  Of  late  I  have  rarely  referred  to  the 
subject:  it  is  one  which  was  clearly  distasteful  to 
you,  and  I  was  unwilling  to  wound  your  delicacy. 
So  it  is  possible  that  you  may  have  grown  into  the 
belief  that  our  mode  of  life  was  as  acceptable  to 
me  as  it  was  to  yourself.  It  has  not  been  .so.  Do 
not  think  I  am  seeking  to  .blame  you.  It  is  a  dif- 
ference of  temperament,  of  constitution,  of  what 
you  will.  You  have  been  made  in  one  mould  and 
I  in  another,  and  they  are  both  extremes.  I  think, 
dear,  you  are  very  little  lower  than  the  angels,  as 
I  am  hardly  higher  than  the  beasts.  Mentally  and 
morally  you  are  the  best  helpmeet  a  man  could  have ; 
physically  you  could  never  mate  with  such  as  I  am. 
No  one  could  wish  for  a  sister,  a  friend,  more 
sweet,  more  unselfish,  more  continually  thoughtful 
and  long-suffering.  As  such,  I  esteem  you,  I  rev- 
erence you,  I  admire  you;  as  such,  if  you  will  be- 
lieve me,  Marjorie,  I  love  you.  But  the  animal 
remains  in  me  and  will  not  be  quelled.  I  do  not 
need  a  sister,  a  friend,  a  housekeeper;  I  need  a 
wife,  and  a  wife  I  must  and  will  have. 

"Perhaps  you  are  thinking  that,  at  least,  I  could 
16 


MR  AND   MRS   VILLIERS 

have  told  you  all  this  before  taking  an  irrevocable 
step.  You  may  feel  that,  in  that  case,  you  would 
have  promised  to  be  to  me  such  as  I  desired.  It 
would  have  been  useless.  You  cannot  alter  your 
nature,  dear.  It  was  given  you  for  some  other  end 
than  wifehood,  some  higher  end.  I  do  not  doubt 
that,  at  any  time  during  our  marriage,  under 
pressure,  out  of  kindness  of  heart  and  your  affec- 
tion, you  would  have  sacrificed  yourself  to  my 
wishes.  It  is  a  sacrifice  I  would  accept  from  no 
woman,  least  of  all  from  you. 

"What  more  need  I  say?  Until  recently  I  have 
been  faithful  to  you.  Accident  made  me  so:  I 
encountered  no  opportunity  to  be  otherwise.  When 
the  opportunity  came,  I  took  it,  as  a  starving  man 
takes  meat.  To  that  food  I  return ;  I  could  refrain 
no  more  than  a  hungry  beggar  for  whom  a  banquet 
is  prepared.  I  do  not  think  you  will  despise  me 
for  this,  as  I  deserve  to  be  despised;  I  think  you 
will  blame  yourself,  who  are  unblamable.  But, 
as  time  passes,  I  hope  you  will  be  able  to  forget 
the  very  mortal  piece  of  clay  to  whom  you  were 
canonically  joined.  I  shall  not  forget  you.  I 
shall  remember  you  always  as  the  purest  and  most 
perfect  of  God's  creatures  I  have  ever  known  or  can 

17 


MR  AND  MRS   riLLlERS 

know.  As  long  as  I  live,  the  thought  of  you  will 
be  to  me  an  elevating  and  ennobling  influence,  a 
sheet-anchor  to  save  me  from  drifting  utterly  in  the 
waters  of  human  folly. 

"You  know,  of  course,  that  the  action  I  am 
taking  entitles  you  to  a  divorce,  or  will  do  so  at  the 
expiration  of  some  legal  period.  If  you  decide  to 
apply  for  it,  the  suit  will  not  be  defended.  This 
will  enable  you  to  obtain  your  freedom  with  a  mini- 
mum of  publicity. 

"I  am  going  to  enclose  you  a  cheque  for  £250, 
and  to  pay  a  similar  sum  into  your  account  every 
six  months  while  you  remain  my  wife.  This,  with 
your  own  means,  will  permit  you  to  live  as  you 
have  done  hitherto. 

"Forget  me,  Marjorie.  I  am  unworthy  an 
instant's  thought,  a  moment's  pain.  Only  give  me 
credit  for  sincerity  when  I  say  that  I  am  still,  no 
less  than  of  yore,  your  affectionate  husband, 

"NORMAN  VlLLIERS." 

Marjorie  folded  the  letter,  replaced  it  in  the 
envelope,  and  hid  it  in  her  bosom.  Her  heart  was 
brimming,  but  as  yet  she  refused  to  permit  it  to  run 
over.  There  was  an  appearance  to  be  maintained, 

18 


MR  AND   MRS   FILLIERS 

cost  her  what  it  might.  She  left  the  room  without 
looking  to  right  or  left.  She  dared  not  trust  her- 
self to  glance  at  any  one  of  the  familiar  objects  it 
contained.  The  papers  on  the  desk,  the  pens,  the 
jar  of  tobacco,  the  boots  waiting  for  their  owner, 
would  have  spoken  with  an  eloquence  too  great  for 
her  fortitude.  She  entered  the  room  where  the 
children  were  finishing  breakfast,  spoke  kindly  to 
them,  replied  to  their  clamorous  speeches,  and  told 
the  nurse  she  must  see  them  warmly  clad  before 
they  went  out  into  the  raw  atmosphere.  After- 
wards she  visited  the  kitchen  and  gave  her  custom- 
ary household  directions. 

When  all  this  had  been  accomplished  with  stoical 
calmness,  she  went  upstairs  to  her  room.  The 
maid  who  was  dusting  it  came  out  as  she  entered. 
Marjorie  gave  her  some  instructions  which  would 
occupy  her  elsewhere,  and  closed  the  door.  Then, 
at  last,  she  cast  herself  upon  the  bed  and  burst 
into  an  overwhelming  flood  of  heart-drawn  tears. 
Her  whole  frame  was  racked  and  shaken  by  the 
power  of  the  deep  sorrow  that  convulsed  her.  After 
a  time  the  violence  of  this  first  outburst  spent  itself, 
and  then,  for  over  an  hour,  she  continued  to  weep 
softly,  her  face  hidden  in  the  pillow.  Her  trouble 

19 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

had  come  upon  her  with  such  stunning,  blinding 
suddenness !  She  found  it  hardly  possible  at  first 
to  realise  all  that  it  meant.  She  had  grown  so 
accustomed  to  her  quiet  life  with  Norman,  to  his 
constant  presence  in  the  house — as  a  buttress  to  take 
the  brunt  of  her  little  vexations  and  to  share  the 
weight  of  her  little  anxieties,  that  now  she  remem- 
bered almost  with  a  shock  of  surprise  that  this  was 
her  husband,  her  lover,  the  man  into  whose  keep- 
ing she  had  given  her  heart — aye,  and  who  would 
keep  it,  whatever  betode,  while  it  beat  within  her. 
He  had  somehow  become  strangely  different  to  her 
eyes  since  first  he  had  sought  her  love;but,as  she  lay 
sobbing  quietly  on  the  bed,  the  later  mechanical  life 
was  obliterated  and  the  memory  of  these  early  days 
gushed  warm  from  her  heart:  how  her  pulse  had 
quickened  at  the  sound  of  his  footsteps;  how  she 
had  avoided  him  because  there  was  none  whose 
company  she  so  much  desired;  how,  when  he  en- 
tered a  room  which  she  shared  with  others,  she 
knew,  though  he  never  glanced  her  way,  that  he 
had  instantly  recognised  her  presence  and  was 
thinking  only  of  her;  how  at  last,  when  she  was 
quite,  quite  sure  of  her  place  in  his  thoughts,  she  had 
looked  into  his  face  and  permitted  her  eyes  to  tell 

20 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIEES 

their  tale.  And  this  it  was  who  was  gone;  not  the 
buttress,  not  the  quiet  man  of  letters,  but  her  early 
love,  her  heart's  desire,  the  most  precious  posses- 
sion that  the  world  held  for  her.  And  at  the  gap- 
ing desolateness  of  that  thought,  the  warm  tears 
flooded  afresh  incontrollably,  and  she  strained  the 
wet  pillow  to  her  face  with  a  long,  low  cry  of  im- 
measurable tribulation. 

Her  sharpest  pang  came  from  the  belief  she  felt 
in  her  own  entire  culpability.  She  did  not  for  an 
instant  question  the  force  of  every  word  which 
Norman  had  written.  He  had  left  her  because  she 
had  failed  in  her  duty  as  a  wife,  because  she  had 
proved  herself  insufficient,  because — and  this  dis- 
tracted her  sorely,  for  the  apparent  divine  injus- 
tice— she  lacked  the  power  to  be  sufficient.  Her 
own  loss  was  not  the  worst  of  the  results  which 
followed:  that  she  had  deserved,  that  she  would 
bear,  though  her  heart  bled  without  ceasing.  What 
harrowed  her,  what  pointed  the  needles  of  self- 
reproof  with  torturing  keenness  was  the  thought 
that  by  her  failure  she  had  driven  him  into  evil :  the 
deadly  fear  that  this  first  step,  by  removing  him 
from  every  straightening  influence,  might  lead  him 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

to  further  extravagance    and    end    in    his    ruin — 
physical,  moral,  and  eternal. 

One  little  ray  of  hope  there  was  to  comfort  her. 
That  was  the  sentence  in  Norman's  letter  in  which 
he  said  that  the  remembrance  of  her  would  save 
him  from  "drifting  utterly."  She  rested  in  its 
warmth,  and  after  a  time  it  brought  her  some  relief 
from  the  pain  of  her  self-chastisement.  Her  deep 
sobs  slowly  ceased,  and  then  she  rose  from  the  bed 
and  sank  on  her  knees  beside  it.  She  prayed  to 
her  Maker,  as  rarely  ever  she  had  prayed  before, 
that  the  husband  whom  she  loved,  and  who  had 
gone  from  her,  might  be  saved  from  utter  drifting. 


CHAFFER  III 

WHEN  Marjorie  rose  from  her  knees  she  was 
again  composed,  and,  moreover,  had  decided  upon 
the  immediate  course  of  action  she  would  take. 
She  bathed  her  swollen  eyes,  and  presently  pinned 
a  neat  hat  on  her  head,  adding  a  veil  to  hide  the 
still  evident  traces  of  her  recent  outbreak  of  weep- 
ing. A  jacket  and  gloves  were  next  put  on,  a  small 
railway  time-table  was  consulted,  various  drawers 
were  unlocked  and  locked  again,  various  small 
articles  disposed  in  their  places  within  them,  and 
thus  finally  prepared  for  a  short  journey,  she  left 
the  room  and  descended  to  the  ground  floor. 

She  informed  the  servants  that  their  master  had 
left  home  and  would  not  return  for  the  present,  and 
that  she  herself  was  going  to  town.  Then  she 
went  out  of  the  house  and  walked  to  the  station, 
nodding  with  her  accustomed  quiet  courtesy  to  such 
of  her  neighbours  as  chanced  to  meet  her  in  the 
road.  She  took  a  return  ticket  for  Waterloo,  and  en- 


tered  a  train  which  presently  arrived,  seating  her- 
self in  a  corner  of  an  empty  compartment.  Crushed 
and  stunned  by  the  blow  she  had  sustained,  she  felt 
the  need,  as  she  had  rarely  felt  it  before,  of  human 
sympathy  and  support.  Her  parents  were  both 
dead,  but  she  was  not,  fortunately,  without  those 
to  whom  she  could  apply  in  her  extremity.  Her 
only  sister  had  married,  years  before,  a  flourishing 
City  man,  and  now  occupied  a  substantial  mansion 
in  Hampstead.  To  this  house  Marjorie  drove  on 
her  arrival  at  Waterloo. 

She  paid  off  the  cab  at  the  door  and  rang  the  bell. 
Mrs  Baker  was  in.  Mrs  Baker  was,  in  fact, 
lunching,  and  Marjorie  entered  her  presence  with- 
out the  formality  of  announcement.  Marion  Baker 
was  four  years  older  than  her  sister,  not  quite  so 
tall,  but  more  symmetrically  proportioned,  and 
without  the  occasional  droop  that  characterised 
Marjorie;  a  sensible  and  thoroughly  capable 
woman,  with  a  sweet  disposition  and  attractive  ex- 
terior. She  was  distinguished  by  a  native  harmony 
of  manner  which  instantly  charmed:  no  one  could 
fail  to  be  struck  by  the  unstudied  elegance  and 
grace  of  all  her  movements.  She  possessed  the  rare 
faculty  of  dressing  well  without  giving  the  impres- 

24 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

sion  that  her  clothes  had  received  elaborate  care 
in  the  preparation.  Though  they  always  became 
her,  they  were  never  glaringly  new.  As  she  came 
to  meet  Marjorie,  there  was  genuine  surprised  joy 
at  the  unexpected  visit  both  in  her  voice  and  her 
smile. 

"Marjorie!"  she  exclaimed.  "How  sweet  of 
you !  I  was  just  beginning  to  wonder  whether  star- 
vation or  a  solitary  lunch  were  preferable?" 

Marjorie  did  not  speak.  She  went  quickly  up 
to  her  sister  and  put  both  her  hands  into  those 
which  the  latter  had  extended. 

"Something  is  wrong?  Something  has  hap- 
pened?" said  Marion,  as  she  kissed  her.  Her  con- 
cern was  manifest  in  the  changed  tone. 

"Yes,  dear." 

"What  is  it?" 

Marjorie  found  the  sympathetic  touch  of  her 
sister's  encircling  arms  almost  too  great  for  her 
hardly  regained  composure.  She  waited  before 
replying :  "It  is  about  Norman,"  she  said. 

"He  is  ill — dead?"  Acute  alarm  was  in  the 
sudden  query. 

"No,  dear." 

25 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

Marion  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief.  "Then  the 
worst  is  light  in  that  case.  Tell  me,  dear." 

"He  has  left  me,"  said  Marjorie,  simply. 

The  elder  woman  made  no  immediate  comment. 
Her  gaze  was  fixed  thoughtfully  on  the  other's  face. 
"I  hardly  understand  you,"  she  said,  at  last.  "It 
seems  incredible.  Come  and  sit  down.  You  are 
looking  so  thin  and  pale,  child.  Drink  some  wine." 
She  hastily  poured  out  a  glass  from  a  decanter. 
"What  did  you  have  for  breakfast?  Nothing? 
I  thought  so.  You  must  eat  a  good  lunch,  and  not 
another  word  about  Norman  until  it  is  finished. 
Afterwards  we  will  go  upstairs  and  talk." 

Marjorie  had  no  appetite,  but  she  allowed  her- 
self to  be  persuaded  by  her  sister  to  swallow  the 
food  she  was  so  sadly  in  need  of.  It  did  her  good ; 
a  faint  tinge  of  colour  came  into  her  cheeks;  and 
presently  she  was  permitted  by  her  hostess  to  con- 
sider the  meal  at  an  end.  They  left  the  table  and 
went  into  a  small  room  on  the  second  floor  which 
Marion  used  partly  as  a  workroom  and  partly  as 
a  boudoir.  There  was  an  air  of  comfort  over  all 
it  contained,  from  the  cheerful  blaze  on  the  hearth 
to  the  scattered  needlework  and  knick-knacks. 


MR   AND   MRS   VILLIERS 

They  seated  themselves  in  two  low  chairs  before 
the  fire.  Marion  took  her  sister's  hand. 

"There,  dear,"  she  said,  "you  look  better  now. 
I  was  afraid  you  were  going  to  faint.  Now  tell 
me  about  Norman.  What  do  you  mean  when  you 
say  he  has  left  you?" 

"I  mean  he  has  gone  away,"  replied  Marjorie, 
"and  doesn't  intend  to  return,  and  he  says  I  can 
get  a  divorce." 

"But  when  did  he  go?  And  how  do  you  know 
he  won't  return?" 

"He  told  me  so  in  a  letter  he  left  on  the  mantel- 
piece." Marjorie  spoke  quietly,  almost  as  if  she 
were  repeating  a  lesson.  "He  went  last  night.  I 
spoke  to  him  on  my  way  to  bed,  and  he  answered 
as  usual,  but  when  I  came  down  this  morning  he 
was  gone." 

"But  there  must  be  something  more,"  urged 
Marion.  She  waited  with  judicial  calmness  for  the 
end  of  the  story  before  committing  herself  to  an 
opinion  upon  it.  "Did  he  say  nothing  else?  You 
always  seemed  to  get  on  so  well.  Did  he  give  no 
reason  for  leaving  you  in  this  extraordinary  way?" 

"Yes,"  said  Marjorie,  in  a  low  tone,  "he  did." 

Her  sister  waited  for  the  sequel,  but  as  the  pause 
27 


MR  AND  MRS  VILLIERS 

remained  unbroken,  she  interjected  quietly,  "Well, 
dear?" 

"I  hardly  know  how  to  tell  you,"  said  Marjorie. 

The  elder  woman  looked  at  her  with  sudden 
surprise  in  her  calm  eyes.  "Why,  Marjorie,  you 
have  no  confession  to  make,  surely?" 

"Oh,  no." 

"Then  it  shouldn't  be  hard  to  tell." 

"It  is— very." 

"Will  you  show  me  the  letter?" 

"Oh,  no,  no!" 

"Then  you  must  contrive  to  make  me  under- 
stand, dear,  somehow.  I  won't  be  dull." 

Marjorie  twisted  the  rings  on  her  sister's  fingers. 
She  found  it  sorely  difficult  to  frame  a  set  of  words 
for  her  purpose.  "You  remember,  Marion,"  she 
said  at  last,  speaking  slowly,  "that  for  the  last  six 
years  Norman  and  I  have  had  different  rooms?" 

"Is  it  so  long  as  that?"  said  Marion.  Again  she 
waited;  again  there  was  a  pause,  which  she  was 
obliged  to  break.  "Yes,  dear;  go  on." 

"That  is  the  reason,"  said  Marjorie. 

Marion  understood.  She  saw  her  sister's  trouble, 
but  did  not  shock  her  by  a  blunt  announcement  of 
her  knowledge.  Now,  however,  that  the  clue  was 

28 


MR  AND   MRS   FILLIERS 

in  her  hands,  she  quickly  extracted  the  remaining 
threads. 

"Which  of  you  first  suggested  living  in  that 
way?"  she  asked. 

""Neither,  I  think,"  said  Marjorie.  "We  drifted 
into  it.  It  suited  me,  and  I  thought  it  suited  him." 

"Really,  it  didn't?" 

"I  know  now  that  it  didn't." 

"But,  surely,  you  must  have  known  before? 
Did  he  never  mention  it?" 

"He  used  to — sometimes." 

"And  you  refused?" 

"I  left  the  subject." 

The  facts  were  out,  and  Marion  summed  up 
with  judicial  impartiality.  "You  made  him  live 
without  you  for  six  years,  when  all  the  time  he  was 
pining  for  the  wife  he  had  married?" 

Marjorie  made  no  attempt  at  extenuation. 
"Yes,"  she  said,  humbly,  hardly  above  her  breath. 

"You  were  very  thoughtless,  Marjorie;  you  were 
almost  cruel." 

The  words  were  expected,  and  yet  they  made 
their  object  wince  slightly  when  they  fell.  "I 
know,"  she  said  simply.  "You  can't  reproach  me 
more  than  I  reproach  myself.  I  am  worse  than 

29 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

cruel :  I  have  driven  him  into  wickedness,  and  his 
sins  must  rest  upon  me." 

"No,"  said  Marion,  quietly;  "you  were  to  blame 
for  the  manner  in  which  you  treated  Norman,  but 
nothing  could  justify  his  leaving  you  as  he  did. 
Why,  if  he  objected  to  the  kind  of  life  he  was 
leading,  didn't  he  come  and  tell  you  so?" 

"He  said  that  I  couldn't  become  different  at  will, 
that  we  were  made  in  opposite  moulds;  and,  be- 
sides, he  wouldn't  mention  a  subject  which  he  knew 
I  disliked." 

Marion's  serene  face  lighted  in  a  sudden  smile  of 
amusement.  "Oh,  my  dear  Marjorie,  you  can't  put 
forward  such  an  excuse  as  that.  He  was  your 
husband,  and  we  must  allow  our  husbands  a  little 
more  license  than  other  people,  poor  creatures; 
they  are  so  very  human." 

"I  can't,"  said  Marjorie,  firmly.  "The  least  al- 
lusion to  horrid,  low  kind  of  things  makes  me  feel 
as  if  a  snake  were  creeping  down  my  back." 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  genuineness  of  the 
sentiment  she  expressed.  Its  truth  vibrated  through 
every  word  she  uttered  and  startled  even  her  sister. 

The  latter  watched  her  some  moments  in 
30 


MR  AND  MRS  riLLIERS 

thoughtful  silence.  "Marjorie,  you  had  no  right 
to  marry,"  she  affirmed  at  last. 

"But  I  loved  him,"  said  Marjorie,  with  surprised 
expostulation. 

Her  ultra-delicacy,  viewed  in  the  light  of  the 
consequences  to  which  it  had  led,  was  slightly  irri- 
tating to  Marion.  She  was  purposely  less  careful 
than  before  to  save  her  sister's  susceptibilities. 
"Yes,"  she  answered,  a  little  tartly,  "but  husbands 
won't  live  on  love;  they  are  much  too  mortal." 

The  slight  rebuke  took  Marjorie  by  surprise. 
Her  fortitude  was  as  yet  too  insecurely  established 
to  meet  an  unexpected  demand  upon  it.  She 
bowed  her  head,  and  the  tears  began  to  fall  softly 
on  her  lap. 

Marion  took  her  hand  again  and  gently  stroked 
it.  "Don't  cry,  dear,"  she  said,  kindly;  "I  didn't 
intend  to  be  harsh.  When  you  married,  our 
mother  was  dead,  and  I  was  too  inexperienced  to 
be  of  much  use  to  you,  so  you  had  no  one  to  talk 
to  you.  You  made  mistakes,  as  you  could  hardly 
help  doing,  and  you  have  had  to  pay  a  heavy  price 
for  them.  We  must  see  that  you  are  better  pre- 
pared for  the  future,"  she  went  on,  cheerily,  "when 
this  trouble  is  all  over  and  you  can  make  a  new 

31 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

start.  I  don't  think  it  can  be  long  before  that 
happens;  two  such  good  people  were  not  put  into 
the  world  to  quarrel." 

She  waited  until  her  sister's  tears  ceased  to  fall, 
and  then  proceeded:  "You  must  have  noticed, 
sometimes,  couples  who  appear  to  go  on  living  in 
a  perpetual  honeymoon,  whose  original  feelings  for 
one  another — what  is  the  verse? — 'Time  cannot 
stale,  nor  custom  wither'?  You  have  seen  such 
marriages,  Marjorie?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  answered  Marjorie.  She  was  dabbing 
her  eyes  with  a  small  cambric  handkerchief.  "Yours 
with  James  is  one ;  I  have  often  thought  so." 

Marion  blushed  slightly.  "I  was  not  thinking 
of  that,"  she  said.  "Because  I  was  going  to  say 
next  that  the  wives  in  such  cases  are  wise  women 
who  know  that  their  happiness  will  not  be  achieved 
by  concealing  their  natural  infirmities  in  the  foolish 
belief  that  insensibility  is  virtue.  The  most  vir- 
tuous woman  is  one  who  is  exceedingly  sensible, 
but  who  has  fought  and  overcome  herself.  For 
those  who  have  been  through  that  fire  and  come 
out  unscathed  there  is  no  honour  too  high.  But 
they  are  necessarily  not  wives.  A  wife's  business, 
if  she  is  wise,  is  to  retain  her  husband's  love  and 

32 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

to  keep  at  bay  the  quiet  affection  into  which  it  so 
often  degenerates." 

"Why  keep  it  at  bay?"  asked  Marjorie.  "If  it 
is  true  affection,  it  is  enough." 

"It  is  not  enough,"  said  Marion,  "as  your  own 
case  has  proved.  A  great  many  pretty  things  have 
been  said  and  written  about  love  being  everlasting 
and  unchanging  and  so  on.  So  it  is,  perhaps,  in 
the  sleepy,  unemotional  stage,  but  in  that  stage  it 
is  always  dangerous — a  loose  rope  that  may  stand  a 
strain  or  may  not.  You  must  keep  the  flame  bright 
enough  to  forge  steel  links.  But  a  flame  needs  to 
be  constantly  fed.  The  fuel  by  which  it  burns  at 
first  is  not  inexhaustible,  and  unless  it  is  replenished 
and  kept  replenished,  the  fire  will  go  out." 

"I  think  I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Marjorie, 
without  looking  up. 

"Man  is  a  difficult  cattle  to  deal  with,"  pro- 
ceeded Marion.  "He  won't  be  beholden.  If,  as 
has  happened  in  your  case,  there  is  nothing  to  give 
him  except  out  of  charity,  don't  let  him  know  it. 
Humour  him.  You  will  be  amply  repaid, 
Marjorie." 

Marjorie  shivered  a  little.  "That  would  be  like 
acting  a  lie,"  she  said. 

33 


MR  AND  MRS  VILLIERS 

"Would  the  reverse  be  acting  a  lie?  When  you 
first  fell  in  love  with  Norman,  did  you  show  him 
your  true  feelings,  or  did  you  do  all  you  could  to 
appear  indifferent?" 

Marjorie's  pale  face  broke  into  a  half  smile. 
"Two  blacks  don't  make  a  white,  dear." 

"How  can  we  satisfy  this  little  tyrant  of  a  con- 
science?" said  Marion,  with  a  quaint  air  of  forbear- 
ance. "Look  at  the  case  in  another  way.  Is  it 
better  that  Norman  should  receive  the  feigned  en- 
dearments of  his  wife  or  the  real  ones  of  another 
woman?" 

The  shaft  struck  home.  Marjorie  clasped  her 
two  hands  tightly  together  and  bent  towards  her 
sister,  her  grey  eyes  wide  and  appealing.  "Oh, 
how  am  I  to  find  him?"  she  cried,  helplessly. 

Marion  did  not  answer  at  once.  She  looked 
thoughtfully  into  the  sweet,  eager  face  before  her, 
and  enclosed  it  between  her  palms.  "Do  you  really 
want  to  find  him  ?"  she  asked  at  last.  "Would  you 
take  him  back  if  you  did?" 

"Oh,  yes,  yes!"  cried  Marjorie.  "I  would  do 
anything,  I  would  devote  my  life  to  him,  to  make 
up  for  the  wrong  I  have  done." 

34 


MR  AND   MRS   FILLIERS 

"But  the  little  snake  will  always  be  there :  I  saw 
it  a  moment  ago." 

"I  won't  mind,"  said  Marjorie,  bravely.  "I  will 
endure  anything  for  his  sake;  I  will  hide  it,  crush 
it,  kill  it." 

Marion  looked  at  her  with  tender  solicitude. 
"Poor  little  bird!"  she  said,  softly.  "With  your 
nature,  how  did  you  come  to  love  such  a  man?" 

Marjorie  fired  up.  "He  has  everything  to  make 
me  love  him.  He  is  honourable  and  just  and  kind 
and  generous  and  noble.  He  has  a  mind  far  above 
mine.  His  only  sins  are  those  to  which  I  have 
driven  him.  He  never  did  a  mean  action  in  his 
life.  He  is  not  a  bad  man,  Marion,  and  you  have 
no  right  to  hint  it." 

"I  didn't  intend  to  hint  it,"  said  Marion,  quietly. 
"I  think  he  is  all — or  nearly  all — you  say.  But  he 
has  a  kink  in  his  nature,  which  makes  him  the  very 
opposite  of  our  demure  little  Marjorie." 

Marjorie  made  no  response.  She  gazed  pen- 
sively into  the  glowing  fire.  "What  am  I  to  do, 
Marion?"  she  said,  presently.  "In  all  the  world 
what  chance  is  there  of  finding  him?" 

"The  world  is  not  so  large  as  it  seems,"  replied 
Marion.  "He  must  have  left  an  address  of  some 

35 


MR  AND  MRS   VILL1ERS 

kind  with  someone.  He  can't  have  cut  himself  off 
completely  from  every  living  creature  he  was  ever 
connected  with.  James  will  know  what  to  do,  he 
always  does." 

Marjorie  started  slightly  at  the  name.  This  was 
a  new  recipient  of  her  secret,  the  necessity  of  whose 
participation  in  it  had  temporarily  been  forgotten. 

"Yes,  of  course  James  must  know,"  she  said, 
after  a  pause,  answering  her  own  thoughts.  "But, 
Marion,  need  you  tell  him  all  ?  Need  you  tell  him 
why  Norman  went  away?" 

"It  will  be  difficult  for  him  to  help  you  unless  I 
do,"  replied  Marion,  after  a  moment's  reflection. 
"You  see,  when  he  has  found  Norman,  he  will 
have  to  go  and  see  him  and  talk  to  him  and  try 
to  persuade  him  to  return ;  and  how  is  he  to  do  that 
unless  he  understands  the  reasons  which  made  him 
leave  you?" 

Marjorie  recognised  the  force  of  this  argument. 
It  was  obvious  that,  if  she  was  to  be  re-united  to 
her  husband,  someone  must  undertake  the  post  of 
intermediary,  and  her  brother-in-law  seemed  to  be 
the  person  naturally  qualified  to  do  so.  Therefore, 
though  she  shrank  from  the  necessity,  she  put  no 
restrictions  on  her  sister's  discretion. 

36 


She  remained  with  Marion  to  tea,  and  then  re- 
turned home.  No  entreaties  could  induce  her  to 
stay  longer.  Her  children  would  need  her,  and 
they  must  now  be  her  first  care.  Though  she 
yearned  for  the  continued  support  of  her  sister's 
steady,  tranquil  nature,  her  mother-love  drew  her 
even  more  strongly  to  the  lonely  mites  who 
awaited  her.  So  Marion  saw  her  into  a  hansom. 

"Try  not  to  worry,  dear,"  were  her  parting 
words.  "James  shall  find  him." 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  fly  in  which  we  left  Norman  Villiers  and 
his  books — a  covered  barouche  of  somewhat  anti- 
quated pattern — -was  called  upon  to  make  a  con- 
siderable journey.     It  rolled  on  steadily  through- 
out the  night  over  miry  roads.    Just  as  dawn  was 
breaking  the  outskirts  of  London   were    reached. 
Some  distance,  however,  still  remained  to  be  trav- 
elled.    The  driver  turned  northward    and    drove 
through  silent  by-streets  and  awakening  thorough- 
fares to  Marylebone.    Here,  after  receiving  sundry 
directions  from  his  fare,  which  he  augmented  by 
inquiries  of  bystanders  on  his  own  account,  he  drew 
up  before  the  door  of  a  small  bookseller.    A  youth 
who  was  taking  down  the  shutters  interrupted  the 
whistled  strains  of  a  popular  melody  to  look  at 
the  early  arrival  with  mild  surprise.     He  touched 
his  cap  to  Villiers  as  the  latter  alighted,  answered 
a  question  as  to  his  master's  accessibility,  and  then 
returned  to  his  work  and  his  whistling.     Norman 

38 


entered  the  shop  and  exchanged  a  few  words  with 
the  proprietor,  who  left  his  breakfast  for  the  pur- 
pose, with  the  result  that  the  books  were  removed 
from  the  cab  and  stored  in  the  bookseller's  back 

I 

premises.  This  done,  Villiers  emerged  again  upon 
the  street  and  paid  off  his  driver.  Standing  on  the 
pavement  with  his  bag  in  his  hand,  he  watched  the 
vehicle  creak  slowly  away  and  rumble  into  the  dis- 
tance, until  finally  it  disappeared  round  a  bend. 
Then  he  turned  and  walked  briskly  in  the  opposite 
direction. 

In  a  few  minutes  he  hailed  a  hansom  and  drove 
to  the  First  Avenue  Hotel.  He  engaged  a  room 
there  and  ordered  some  breakfast.  After  the  meal 
he  went  upstairs,  removed  his  outer  clothes,  and  lay 
down  upon  his  bed.  He  was  considerably  ex- 
hausted by  the  tedious  night  journey,  and  quickly 
fell  asleep.  About  one  o'clock  he  got  up  and 
dressed,  using  a  little  more  care  than  was  his  cus- 
tom. Then  he  lunched  and  went  out  of  the  hotel. 

He  had  chosen  his  quarters  with  a  view  of 
avoiding  chance  acquaintance,  and  he  was  there- 
fore somewhat  annoyed  to  be  recognised,  just  after 
he  had  left  the  building,  by  a  short,  muscular  man, 
with  close-cropped  black  hair  and  a  slightly  Jewish 

39 


MR  AND   MRS   VILLIERS 

cast  of  countenance,  who  was  hurrying  along  Hoi- 
born.  There  was  a  cheerful  light  in  his  eye,  a  beam 
of  human  kindness,  which  assured  you  at  once  of 
a  man  to  be  trusted.  This  was  Mr.  Thornton,  the 
junior  member  of  the  publishing  house  of  Clarke, 
Thornton  &  Co.  He  accounted  it  among  his  pro- 
fessional achievements  that  he  had  "discovered" 
Villiers.  The  latter,  on  this  occasion,  met  his  genial 
advance  with  slight  reserve. 

"What,  Villiers  1"  said  the  publisher,  briskly. 
"One  doesn't  often  meet  you  in  this  part  of  the 
world.  Have  you  lost  your  way,  old  fellow?" 

"Not  if  this  is  anywhere  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  Bedford  Row,"  replied  Norman,  quietly.  "I 
am  on  my  way  to  see  my  solicitors." 

"Come  along,  then."  The  two  men  turned  and 
walked  west  together.  "What's  the  trouble?  You 
are  not  quite  up  to  the  mark  to-day,  Villiers." 

"A  little  pensive,"  answered  Villiers,  "nothing 
more." 

"Nothing  wrong,  I  hope?    All  well  at  home?" 

"Perfectly,"  said  Villiers,  "when  I  left  them." 

"I'll  tell  you  what  you  want,"  said  Thornton, 
with  conviction;  "you're  down  on  your  luck.  I'm 
going  to  Newmarket  the  day  after  to-morrow  to 

40 


see  the  Cambridgeshire.  You  must  pack  up  and 
come  with  me.  No  trouble;  just  a  couple  of  nights; 
plenty  of  fun ;  and  home  again  as  fit  as  a  fiddle." 

Villiers  smiled  slightly.  "You've  an  excellent 
heart,  Thornton,"  he  said,  "but  your  logic  is  de- 
plorable. Because  you  happen  to  find  watching 
horse-racing  an  exhilarating  form  of  amusement, 
you  assume  that  it  would  necessarily  have  a  similar 
effect  upon  me." 

"And  so  it  would." 

"On  the  contrary,  I  think  it  would  depress  me." 

"Not  it.  Come  and  try;  I'll  answer  for  the 
good  results." 

"No,"  said  Villiers,  still  smiling.  "I  appreciate 
your  kindness,  my  dear  Thornton,  but  I  am  not  in 
the  least  likely  to  visit  a  race-meeting.  From  what 
I  can  gather,  you  wait  half  an  hour  for  half  a 
minute  of  disappointment,  and  then  repeat  the 
process." 

"Well,  if  you  won't  come,"  said  Thornton,  good- 
humouredly,  "I'll  do  the  next  best  thing  for  you. 
I'm  stretching  a  point,  because  I  can  see  you  want 
something  to  give  you  a  fillip.  I  have  this  informa- 
tion from  a  quarter  I  would  trust  with  a  hundred- 
pound  note." 

41 


The  two  had  stopped  at  the  corner  of  Bedford 
Row.  Thornton  laid  his  forefinger  on  the  sleeve 
of  Villiers'  coat.  "  'Masterman  Ready'  is  the 
horse,  my  dear  boy.  It  is  going  to  win." 

'  'Masterman  Ready,'  "  said  Villiers,  repeating 
the  name  mechanically. 

'  'Masterman  Ready,'  "  said  Thornton,  firmly. 

"Well,  and  if  it  actually  should  win,  what  then  ? 
Tell  me  precisely  what  you  expect  me  to  do  with 
this  piece  of  information?" 

"Do  with  it?"  The  publisher  was  aghast.  "Go 
to  your  man,  get  the  longest  price  he'll  give  you, 
and  put  on  every  halfpenny  you  have  to  spare — not 
all  your  fortune,  because  the  horse  might  break  his 
neck." 

"My  man,"  remarked  Norman,  "would  take  a 
little  finding,  I  fancy." 

"You  can  safely  back  it,  Villiers,"  proceeded  the 
other,  without  noticing  the  commentary.  "To  tell 
the  truth,  I've  a  few  more  pounds  on  it  myself  than 
I  should  care  to  lose." 

"Well,  I  won't  add  to  your  responsibility  by 
entrusting  it  with  anything  of  mine,"  said  Villiers. 
"I  once  betted  half-a-crown  and  lost,  and  I  have 
never  given  myself  a  chance  to  lose  another." 

42 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

Thornton  laughed  heartily.  "Then  I'm  afraid 
you'll  have  to  take  to  drink,  old  fellow.  But  if 
ever  you  should  get  it  into  your  head  to  write  a 
sporting  novel,  don't  send  it  to  us." 

"That  reminds  me,"  said  Villiers.  "I  was  in- 
tending to  come  and  see  you  this  afternoon.  My 
whereabouts  will  be  a  little  uncertain  for  the  next 
few  weeks,  so  if  you  should  find  it  necessary  to 
communicate  with  me,  direct  me  to  the  care  of  my 
solicitors,  will  you?"  He  wrote  some  words  on  a 
slip  of  paper  and  passed  it  to  Thornton.  "That  is 
the  address." 

The  publisher  looked  at  the  slip  and  put  it  in 
his  pocket.  "A  little  trip,  is  it?"  he  said.  "Local 
colour?  Oh,  you  novelists!" 

"A  very  respectable  body,  I  believe,"  said 
Villiers,  lightly. 

"They've  two  ideas,  my  dear  boy — royalties  and 
advertisements.  And  that  brings  us  to  business. 
We  must  have  something  out  before  long,  or  we 
shall  lose  our  public.  How  goes  the  new  novel?" 

"Slowly,"  said  Villiers,  "but,  I  hope,  satisfac- 
torily. I  can  let  you  have  the  first  half  of  the  MS. 
at  any  time." 

"No  use.    We  can  do  nothing  with  it  now.  until 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

the  spring.  Keep  it  going  and  send  us  the  whole 
bundle  together."  He  moved  away  a  few  steps. 
"And  remember,"  he  added,  "it  must  run  to  a  hun- 
dred thousand.  They  are  beginning  to  tire  of  pica 
and  margins." 

Villiers  started  to  cross  the  street.  "They're 
continually  tiring  of  something,"  he  said,  laughing. 
"They'll  tire  of  novels  directly." 

"Not  they,"  said  Thornton.  "Good-bye,  old 
fellow.  Keep  up  your  spirits.  And  take  my  ad- 
vice: just  have  a  sovereign  on  'Masterman 
Ready.' '  He  whipped  round  with  a  cheery  nod 
and  walked  briskly  away  towards  Oxford  Street. 

His  sunny  spirits  had  to  some  extent  infected 
Villiers.  The  latter  continued  to  smile  as  he  made 
his  way  up  Bedford  Row.  His  face  re-assumed  its 
wonted  thoughtful  expression,  however,  as  he  ap- 
proached the  offices  of  Messrs  Markham,  Flood 
&  Spindle,  his  solicitors.  He  entered  the  clerks' 
office  and  asked  for  Mr  Spindle.  Mr  Spindle  was 
in,  but  he  was  engaged.  Would  Mr  Villiers  call 
again  or  take  a  seat?  Mr  Villiers  would  take  a 
seat,  and  did  so  accordingly.  After  waiting  twenty 
minutes  he  was  ushered  into  the  presence  of  the 
lawyer. 

44 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

Mr  Spindle  was  the  junior  member  of  his  firm, 
but  the  one  upon  whose  shoulders  rested  the  main 
conduct  of  its  business.  He  was  a  tall,  keen  man 
of  forty,  with  a  heavy  brown  moustache  and  slight- 
ly protruding  eyes  of  the  same  colour — eyes  which 
pierced  you  sufficiently  without  the  addition  of  the 
glass  which  he  occasionally  screwed  into  one  of 
them  to  focus  his  object  more  effectually.  He  was 
standing  on  the  centre  of  his  hearthrug  to  receive 
Norman. 

"Good-day,  Mr  Villiers,"  he  said,  the  instant 
the  latter  appeared  in  the  doorway.  "What  can  I 
do  for  you?  More  trouble  with  the  American 
copyrights?" 

Villiers  was  not  a  client  whose  business  was  apt 
to  be  particularly  remunerative,  and  Mr  Spindle 
accordingly  thought  that  the  present  conversation 
might  be  satisfactorily  concluded  without  changing 
from  the  perpendicular.  Norman  had  no  such 
view,  however.  He  knew  that  the  interview  would 
be  charged  for,  and  he  intended  to  obtain  a  reason- 
able equivalent.  He  placed  his  hat  on  one  chair 
and  seated  himself  in  another.  "No,"  he  answered, 
deliberately,  "none  that  I  am  aware  of,  Mr  Spindle. 

45 


AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

My  present  errand  is  unconnected  with  my  literary 
work." 

The  solicitor,  after  some  shuffling,  was  obliged 
to  follow  his  client's  example.  He  took  an  upright 
seat  near  his  desk  and  looked  uncomfortable.  A 
chair  with  him  was  an  article  of  the  merest  tem- 
porary convenience.  Doubtless  he  occasionally 
rested ;  but  for  one  unacquainted  with  his  domestic 
life  it  was  difficult  to  conceive  him  in  repose. 

"Ha !"  he  asserted,  "then  you  want  me  to  draw 
your  will?"  He  took  a  sheet  of  paper  from  a 
pigeon-hole  and  pulled  it  towards  him. 

"Not  even  that,"  replied  Villiers,  quietly. 

"At  any  rate,"  said  Mr  Spindle,  with  a  con- 
traction of  the  features  that  was  intended  to  be  a 
smile,  "you  don't  wish  me  to  guess  conundrums." 

The  remark  was  saved  from  asperity  merely  by 
the  fact  that  Villiers  was  a  client.  The  latter  was 
quite  unruffled. 

"I  shall  occupy  your  time  only  a  very  few  mo- 
ments, Mr  Spindle,"  he  said.  "I  wish  to  consult 
you  in  reference  to  my  position  matrimonially,  or, 
rather,  to  inform  you  of  it,  in  view  of  eventualities. 
I  have  left  my  wife." 

Mr  Spindle  cocked  the  glass  in  his  eye.  A  keen 
46 


MR  AND  MRS  VILLIERS 

interest  suddenly  lighted  his  face.  He  scented  a 
lucrative  action  at  law.  "I  am  sorry,  Mr  Villiers," 
he  said. 

He  did  not  look  sorry;  neither  did  Villiers  feel 
the  need  of  his  sympathy.  "My  action  is  purely 
voluntary,"  he  remarked. 

"Precisely.  I  intended  to  express  regret  that 
your  marriage  had  not  proved  to  be  a  satisfactory 
one." 

"My  wife  is  above  me,  infinitely,"  explained 
Norman.  "I  cannot  attain  her  level." 

The  solicitor's  intent  glare  gave  way  moment- 
arily to  an  unsympathetic  smile.  "You  are  not 
the  first  man  to  make  that  discovery,  Mr  Villiers," 
he  said.  "Is  the  estrangement  likely  to  be  perma- 
nent?" 

"It  must  be." 

"Do  you  anticipate  divorce  proceedings?" 

"I  think  it  possible." 

Mr  Spindle  was  beginning  to  treat  Norman 
with  consideration.  "In  that  case  you  desire  us 
to  undertake  the  conduct  of  the  defence." 

"There  will  be  no  defence." 

Mr  Spindle  dropped  his  eye-glass.  His  opinion 
of  Villiers,  as  a  man,  stood  precisely  where  it  had 

47 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

stood  before.    As  a  client  his  value  had  sunk  almost 
cent,  per  cent.    He  quickly  closed  the  interview. 

"Then,  if  a  petition  is  filed,  you  wish  us  merely 
to  watch  the  proceedings  on  your  behalf  and  to 
keep  you  informed?" 

"If  you  will  do  so." 

"That  shall  be  done."     Mr  Spindle  rose. 

Norman  also  rose  and  took  his  hat.  "In  the 
meantime,"  he  said,  "until  my  plans  are  more 
settled,  you  will  perhaps  be  good  enough  to  for- 
ward any  letters  that  may  arrive?" 

"Certainly.    Will  you  give  me  an  address?" 

Villiers  handed  him  an  envelope.  "I  need  not 
say  that  this  is  in  professional  confidence?" 

"Of  course.  Can  I  be  of  use  to  you  in  any  other 
way?" 

"None,  I  think,"  said  Villiers. 

Mr  Spindle  opened  the  door.  "Cheerless 
weather;  but  what  can  we  expect?"  said  he. 
"Good-day,  Mr  Villiers,  good-day. — Mister — er— 
Johnson!"  And  Norman,  as  he  descended  the 
stairs,  heard  an  unfortunate  clerk,  fearful  of  a 
moment's  delay,  hurrying  down  with  the  great 
man's  letters  for  signature. 

After  leaving  his  solicitors'  office  Villiers  visited 
48 


MR  AND   MBS   VILLIERS 

a  hairdresser's,  and  then  took  a  tour  of  the  shops 
in  a  hansom,  making  several  small  purchases,  all 
articles  of  attire,  which  he  conveyed  back  with  him 
to  the  hotel.  About  seven  o'clock  he  went  up  to 
his  room  to  dress.  In  half  an  hour  he  re-appeared, 
wearing  a  long  fawn  overcoat  over  his  evening 
clothes,  and  called  for  a  cab.  He  was  now  com- 
pletely transformed  from  the  slovenly  Villiers 
whose  acquaintance  we  originally  made.  Well 
groomed,  well  dressed,  from  his  glossy  silk  hat  to 
his  polished  boots,  as  he  stood  for  a  moment  on  the 
steps  of  the  hotel  waiting  for  his  cab,  one  might 
have  searched  London  in  vain  for  a  more  acceptable 
sample  of  a  representative  Englishman. 

The  hansom  drew  to  the  curb,  and  Villiers  en- 
tered it.  "Albany  Mansions,  Sloane  Street,"  he 
said  to  the  driver. 

The  latter  nodded  and  threaded  his  way  across 
the  street.  Then  he  flicked  his  horse  and  drove 
quickly  out  of  sight  amid  the  maze  of  traffic. 


CHAPTER  V 

"ALBANY  MANSIONS"  was  a  considerable  red- 
brick building  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Sloane 
Street,  divided  into  suites  of  apartments  something 
in  the  system  of  flats.  Each  suite,  however,  com- 
prised only  two  rooms  and  a  lobby,  and  the  whole 
group  was  worked  by  a  staff  of  servants  under  the 
management  of  a  caretaker  and  his  wife,  who  oc- 
cupied the  basement.  The  former  was  a  superan- 
nuated soldier,  sunburnt  and  erect,  who  bore  on  his 
broad  chest,  with  pardonable  pride,  several  tokens 
of  his  services  to  his  country.  He  was  standing  at 
the  main  entrance  of  the  building  when  Villiers  ar- 
rived in  his  cab.  Raising  his  hand  to  the  salute  as 
the  latter  alighted,  he  stepped  across  the  pavement 
to  meet  him. 

"Well,  Stevens,"  said  the  novelist,  "here  I  am; 
well  up  to  time,  you  see." 

"We're  all  ready   for  you,   sir,"   said   Stevens. 
"We've  lit  a  bit  of  fire  in  the  sitting-room." 

50 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

"That's  right.  Has  the  remainder  of  the  furni- 
ture arrived?" 

"Yes,  sir;  the  last  lot  came  in  yesterday.  I  had 
it  put  where  you  said,  sir." 

"Well  done !  I've  left  my  things  at  the  hotel,  so 
I  shall  not  sleep  here  to-night.  To-morrow  I  hope 
to  get  finally  installed." 

"Very  good,  sir." 

"1  hope  Mrs  Stevens  will  not  find  me  a  trouble- 
some tenant.  I  think  my  habits  are  tolerably  reg- 
ular." 

"Oh,  God  bless  you,  sir!"  said  Stevens,  "we're 
used  to  anything.  We  have  them  here  that  keeps 
all  hours,  day  and  night." 

"I  expect  you  have,"  said  Villiers,  laughing. 
He  was  passing  on  his  way  to  the  steps  when 
Stevens  stopped  hinu 

"Let  me  see,  sir,  have  you  the  key?" 

"No,"  said  Villiers,  turning  with  a  slightly  con- 
scious laugh,  "neither  I  have." 

The  commissionnaire  brought  out  a  bunch. 
"No.  n,"  said  he,  removing  one  of  them.  "That's 
it,  sir." 

"Thank  you,  Stevens,  thank  you."  Villiers  took 
the  key  and  returned  to  the  stairs.  He  whistled  a 

51 


few  bars  of  an  air  as  he  went  up.  It  was  not  a 
habit  of  his;  he  was  merely  anxious  to  convince 
himself  that  the  slight  piece  of  forgetfulness  had 
left  him  undisturbed. 

No.  1 1  was  on  the  second  floor,  and  here  Nor- 
man came  to  a  halt.  He  made  no  attempt  to  enter 
it,  however.  He  put  away  the  key  which  the  care- 
taker had'  given  him  and  took  another  from  his 
pocket.  This  he  inserted  in  the  lock  of  No.  12, 
turned  it,  and  went  in.  He  crossed  the  lobby  and 
passed  through  the  inner  door  beyond.  A  soft 
light  fell  upon  him  from  a  fire  and  shaded 
candles.  He  had  entered  a  room  furnished 
with  considerable  taste  and  elegance,  clearly  no 
bachelor's  apartment.  A  round  table  in  the  centre 
was  spread  with  a  dainty  supper  for  two,  glass  and 
silver  gleaming  amid  flowers  and  appetising  con- 
fections on  a  snowy  cloth. 

In  a  low  chair  before  the  fire  was  seated  the 
owner  of  the  room,  a  woman  in  evening  dress.  She 
was  not  only  beautiful  in  an  artistic  sense,  but  at- 
tractive in  the  highest  degree  in  a  human  one.  The 
firelight  touched  her  cheek  with  a  soft  blush  and 
struck  on  a  few  shining  strands  in  the  abundant 
mass  of  dark  hair  which  covered  her  head.  She 

52 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIEES 

was  gazing  pensively  into  the  blaze  with  eyes  dark 
and  deeply  glowing,  screened  by  long  lashes,  like 
shaded  pools.  Her  gown  was  of  soft  black  lace, 
which  threw  her  pearly  skin  into  striking  contrast 
and  displayed  her  symmetrical  contours  at  their 
highest  advantage. 

This  was  Miss  Rosamond  Hope,  a  lady  who 
turned  the  vanities  of  her  sisters  to  account,  and 
had  attained  a  position  of  some  mark  in  the  jour- 
nalistic world  by  contributing  articles  on  dress  to 
various  periodicals  under  various  pseudonyms.  She 
shared  with  a  spectacled  lady  artist  on  the  top 
storey  the  distinction  of  being  the  only  members 
of  the  gentler  sex  to  occupy  rooms  in  this  building. 

She  did  not  rise  when  Villiers  entered,  nor  even 
alter  her  position.  "The  wanderer  has  returned,  I 
presume?"  she  said,  still  looking  into  the  fire. 

Norman  crossed  the  room  to  the  place  where  she 
was  sitting;  and  then  suddenly  she  looked  up,  and 
a  wonderful  light  gleamed  from  her  eyes  into  his. 
Villiers  stretched  out  both  his  hands;  she  placed 
her  own  in  them,  and  he  drew  her  up  to  him. 

"This  time  to  stay,  Rosamond,"  he  said.  He 
took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  on  the  lips, 
kissed  and  kissed  again,  closely,  passionately,  kissed 

53 


MR  AND  MRS   riLLIERS 

the  breath  from  her  lungs,  almost  the  life  from  her 
heart. 

"Oh,  dear!"  she  exclaimed,  as  she  extricated  her- 
self, panting,  from  the  embrace,  "what  a  mighty 
man  you  are — sometimes!" 

"Sometimes?"  said  Norman,  smiling.  "Always." 

"Boaster!"  She  flicked  his  cheek  lightly  with 
her  finger.  "You  know  what  happens  to 
boasters?" 

Villiers  laughed.  Then  he  glanced  at  the  supper 
table.  "But  how  am  I  to  return  all  this  munificent 
hospitality?"  he  said. 

"Very  easily,"  said  Rosamond;  "by  promising 
to  appreciate  it.  It  is  not  munificent;  and,  besides, 
I  don't  need  any  return."  Then  she  added:  "You 
know  that,  don't  you,  dear?" 

"I  know  there  is  no  one  to  compare  with  you  in 
the  world,"  said  Villiers,  irrelevantly. 

"Then,  as  you  are  the  greatest  stranger,  you  must 
take  this  incomparable  person  in  to  supper.  Shall 
we  leave  the  drawing-room  and  go  into  the 
salle-a-manger?" 

"Mind  the  steps,  Miss  Hope,"  said  Norman, 
offering  Rosamond  his  arm. 

They  seated  themselves  at  the  table,  side  by  side. 
54 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

"Oh,  this  won't  do!"  exclaimed  Rosamond.  "I 
never  heard  of  the  greatest  stranger  holding  the 
hostess's  hand." 

"It  is  an  admirable  innovation,  all  the  same," 
said  Norman. 

"But  how  am  I  to  eat?" 

"Use  the  other  one." 

"Eat  with  the  left  hand!"  protested  Rosamond, 
"when  you  have  no  further  use  for  the  one  in  your 
possession  but  to  squeeze  it  most  unmercifully." 

"Sweet  fingers !"  said  Villiers,  kissing  them  as 
they  lay  in  his  palm.  "Have  I  maltreated  them 
very  badly?" 

"Terribly,"  said  Rosamond,  holding  up  the  five 
pink  victims  for  his  inspection.  "And  since  you 
evidently  need  something  to  occupy  you,  I  think 
I'll  make  you  the  butler.  Butler,  open  the  cham- 
pagne." 

Norman  removed  the  wire  from  the  cork.  Then 
he  took  the  bottle  in  his  hand  and  went  behind 
Rosamond's  chair.  "Champagne,  madam?" 

"No  well-trained  butler,"  said  she,  "ever  asks  a 
lady  if  she  will  have  champagne;  and  certainly," 
she  added,  "he  never  kisses  the  back  of  her  neck." 

"In  this  case,"  said  Norman,  repeating  the  of- 


fence,  "any  butler  would  be  exonerated,  on  account 
of  the  exceptional  temptation." 

Rosamond  burst  out  laughing.  "I  should  like 
to  see  how  you  would  look  if  your  own  brother — 
much  less  servant — made  that  excuse.  Con- 
sider yourself  dismissed." 

Villiers  filled  her  glass  and  his  own,  and  then  sat 
down.  He  held  up  the  golden  wine  and  looked 
across  it  into  her  glowing,  smiling  face.  "To  your 
eyes,  Rosamond,  to  your  lips!" 

He  drank  the  contents  of  the  glass  and  put  it 
down.  There  was  a  moment's  pause.  "Your  turn, 
sweetheart,"  said  Norman.  "  lLa  reine  boit'f 
What  is  your  toast?" 

Slowly  she  raised  her  glass.  "To — to — "  He 
was  looking  into  her  eyes,  and  she  into  his.  Their 
faces  drew  closer  as  they  gazed,  and  closer  still; 
mechanically  the  glass  returned  to  the  table ;  at  last 
the  two  pairs  of  lips  met,  and  clung  together,  and 
seemed  that  they  never  would  separate. 

With  long  breaths  they  fell  apart.  "And  some 
fools  think  they  have  kissed !"  said  Norman. 

There  was  some  food  on  his  plate,  which  he  had 
not  tasted.  "Why  don't  you  eat?"  said  his  hostess. 

"No  appetite,"  he  said,  laughing.  He  left  his 
56 


MR   AND   MRS   FILLIERS 

seat  and  went  to  a  Chesterfield  couch  which  stood 
near  the  wall.     "Come  here,  Rosamond!" 

She  obeyed  him  with  an  assumption  of  petulance. 
"Imperator,  why  should  you  exercise  your  despotic 
sway  to  interfere  with  my  supper?" 

"Because  you  need  supper  no  more  than  I  do," 
said  Villiers;  "because,  if  you  tried  to  force  another 
morsel  down  that  dainty  throat,  it  would  choke 
you." 

She  laughed  lightly.  "Since  when  has  this  start- 
ling incapacity  to  eat  afflicted  me?" 

"Since  a  moment  ago." 

She  laughed  again.  "Prove  it,"  she  cried; 
"prove  it.  I  defy  you." 

For  answer  he  folded  her  closely  in  his  arms,  and 
kissed  her  with  burning  lips  on  hair  and  eyes  and 
mouth,  on  neck  and  shoulders,  on  every  little  space 
which  her  evening  bodice  left  open  to  his  ravages. 

Suddenly,  withdrawing  partly  from  his  embrace, 
she  dropped  her  head  on  the  back  of  the  couch. 
"Oh!"  she  sighed. 

He  took  her  gently  into  his  clasp  again  and 
looked  into  her  face.  "Well,  little  tyrant,  is  it 
proved?  is  it?" 

67 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

Her  eyes  were  lowered,  and  she  nervously 
pressed  the  arm  that  encircled  her. 

"Sweet  Rosamond!"  said  Norman.  He  raised 
her  tenderly,  and,  holding  his  arm  about  her,  sup- 
ported her  within  it  from  the  room. 


CHAPTER  VI 

NEARLY  an  hour  had  elapsed  when  they  re- 
turned. Rosamond  was  pinning  a  small  brooch  in. 
her  bodice. 

"Why,  how  clumsy  you  are!"  she  exclaimed, 
turning  to  Norman  with  a  bright  glance.  "Let 
me  valet  you."  Standing  in  front  of  him,  she 
loosened  with  her  slim  fingers  the  ends  of  his  cravat 
and  then  neatly  re-tied  it,  finishing  with  a  light  tap 
on  his  cheek.  "You  should  be  ashamed  to  show 
such  incompetence." 

They  seated  themselves  at  the  table  and  resumed 
their  supper.  Rosamond  was  in  excellent  spirits, 
and  upon  her  devolved  the  major  share  of  the  con- 
versation. 

"Why  so  glum?"  she  said,  blithely,  to  her  com- 
panion at  length;  "prithee,  why  so  quiet?" 

"Am  I  quiet?"  said  Norman.  "If  so,  it  is  in- 
excusably rude  of  me  with  such  a  hostess  and  such 
a  supper." 

59 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

"Then  the  indictment  is  proved,  I'm  afraid,"  she 
answered,  smiling.  "I  know  what  it  is,"  she  added, 
after  a  pause,  looking  into  his  face,  "you  are  think- 
ing of  your  wife?" 

Villiers  had  a  momentary  impulse  to  turn  away 
the  charge  with  a  flippant  rejoinder,  but  he  changed 
his  mind.  "Yes,"  he  admitted,  frankly,  "I  was." 

Rosamond  sighed  slightly.     "It  is  always  the 


same." 


"Why  do  you  sigh,  dear?" 

"You  love  her  still,  Norman?" 

"I  love  her,"  said  Villiers,  "as  an  artist  would 
love  a  perfectly  executed  statue,  as  every  man  with 
unblunted  perceptions  must  love  a  noble-minded 
woman  whose  goodness  he  knows  through  and 
through." 

"And  yet  you  were  not  happy  with  her?" 

"She  was  not  intended  to  make  a  man  happy — 
not,  at  least,  such  a  man  as  I  am.  My  marriage 
with  her  was  a  long,  constantly  present,  gnawing 
disappointment." 

"Am  I  a  disappointment,  Norman?"  said  Rosa- 
mond, softly.  "Do  I  make  you  happy?" 

It  was  flagrant  fishing,  but  Villiers  rose  to  the 
bait.  His  eyes  glowed  with  sudden  fire,  his  whole 

60 


MR  AND  MRS  VILLIERS 

being  expanded.  "Happy!"  he  reiterated,  "happy! 
Rosamond,  you  can  have  no  conception  what  your 
love  means  to  me.  For  another  hour,  for  one  more 
such  hour  as  I  have  passed  with  you,  I  would  go 
through  fire  and  pestilence,  I  would  go  through 
hell  itself." 

"Hush!  Hush!"  His  vehemence  almost 
startled  her.  "Don't  look  at  me  like  that,  dear," 
she  said;  "you  frighten  me.  I  know  what  you 
mean,  and  I  feel  for  you  truly,  deeply.  Poor 
Norman,"  she  added,  taking  his  hand  and  stroking 
it  softly,  "you  have  lived  in  purgatory." 

"Will  you  always  be  the  same,  I  wonder?"  said 
Norman.  "Won't  a  time  come,  before  long,  when 
you  will  tire  of  me?" 

She  raised  his  hand  and  pressed  it  to  her  cheek. 
"No,"  she  answered,  softly,  "you  need  not  fear 
that." 

"Never,  dear?" 

"Never."  She  kissed  his  hand  and  let  it  go. 
"Besides,"  she  added,  "we  shall  have  no  chance  to 
tire  of  one  another  if  we  live  apart  as  we  have 
agreed  to." 

"That  is  a  subject  I  intended  to  speak  to  you 
about,  Rosamond,"  said  Villiers.  "This  arrange- 

61 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIEES 

ment  is  admirable  in  many  ways,  but  it  has  struck 
me  that  a  time  might  come  when  it  would  be  better 
that  you  should  appear  to  be  married." 

"That  time  hasn't  come  yet,"  said  she,  "and 
I  don't  think  it  will.  We  won't  meet  trouble  half- 
way." 

"But  why  are  you  so  anxious  that  we  should 
live  separate  lives?  I  should  like  to  be  with  you 
constantly." 

Rosamond  smiled  a  little  intolerantly.  "Of 
course,"  she  said,  "you  are  improvident,  like  all 
your  sex.  There  are  many  things  we  should  like 
to  do  constantly,  but  we  don't  do  them,  because  we 
know  they  would  pall  if  we  did.  Let  me  ask  you 
a  question." 

"As  many  as  you  like." 

"When  you  came  into  this  room  to-night  and 
saw  me  sitting  here,  did  your  heart  beat  faster?" 

"Of  course." 

"Did  it  beat  faster  even  when  you  were  coming 
up  the  stairs?" 

"Yes." 

"Would  it  do  that,  do  you  think,  if  you  had 
lived  in  the  same  house  with  me  and  grown  used 

62 


MR  AND  MRS  V1LLIERS 

to  my  continual  presence  at  your  side,  say  for  six 
months?" 

"I  cannot  conceive,"  said  Norman,  "that  it 
would  ever  do  anything  else." 

"You  men  are  intolerably  stupid  in  understand- 
ing human  nature,"  said  Rosamond;  "you  can 
never  see  beyond  the  present.  Let  me  tell  you, 
sir,  that  it  certainly  would  not.  You  might  be 
pleased  to  see  me — quietly,  unemotionally  pleased 
— but  no  more." 

"Don't  hint  it,  Rosamond." 

"But  you  know  what  I  mean?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

"That  is  not  enough,  is  it?" 

"No,"  said  Norman,  "that  is  not  enough." 

"And  so  we  must  live  apart  and  see  each  other 
merely  sometimes.  The  sum  total  of  happiness,  if 
people  only  understood  it,  is  having  something  good 
to  look  forward  to.  Without  that,  even  though 
things  are  going  well  with  us,  life  is  colourless  and 
vapid.  Why,  if  we  lived  together,"  she  added, 
with  a  slight  laugh,  "we  might  as  well  be  married." 

Norman  looked  at  her  curiously.  "Does  that 
explain  why  you  have  not  married?"  he  asked. 

"Partly.  The  prize,  if  you  win  it,  is  a  very  small 
63 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

one,  and  the  stake  is  enormous — a  homely,  negative 
kind  of  happiness  is  the  best  it  has  to  offer.  But 
even  if  it  were  otherwise,  I  have  never  met  anyone 
to  whom  I  would  resign  my  freedom  absolutely, 
irrevocably  for  life." 

"Not  to  me,  Rosamond?" 

"No,"  she  answered.  "I  love  you,  Norman,  I 
think  you  are  necessary  to  my  happiness,  but  even 
if  you  were  free  I  would  not  marry  you." 

Norman  took  her  hand.  "Don't  say  that,  sweet- 
heart," he  pleaded.  "It  is  just  possible,  if  my  wife 
— if  I  were  divorced — " 

"Oh,  you  bold  man,"  cried  Rosamond,  "would 
you  try  the  experiment  again?  What  would  happen 
if  we  were  to  marry?  In  less  than  a  year  we  should 
peer  at  one  another  through  a  fern  from  each  end 
of  a  long  table  and  talk  about  the  weather  and  our 
neighbours." 

"I  could  talk  about  Nebuchadnezzar  with  you," 
said  Norman,  "and  not  be  bored." 

"You  would  refuse  to  dress  for  dinner,"  she  con- 
tinued, "and  I  should  read  a  novel  in  the  drawing- 
room  afterwards  till  I  fell  asleep." 

"Sleeping  beauty,"  said  Norman;  "I  would 
wake  you  with  a  kiss." 

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MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

"But  what  if  I  were  snoring?"  said  Rosamond. 

Norman  shuddered.  "Don't  speak  of  it,"  he 
said;  "you  couldn't." 

She  laughed  brightly.  "No  woman  can  until  she 
is  married.  Can  you  think  of  anything  worse?" 

"No,"  admitted  Norman. 

She  laughed  again.  "I  am  only  showing  you 
the  pleasures  of  a  home  life,"  she  said.  "Granting 
I  didn't  do  that,  I  should  wake  in  a  bad  temper 
and  tell  you  I  had  been  working  all  day  and  wanted 
to  rest.  I  have  been  working  to-day,"  she  added, 
inconsequently. 

"But  you  don't  want  to  sleep." 

"We  are  not  married,"  said  she.  "Oh,  no,"  she 
concluded,  "I  will  keep  my  latch-key  and  go  and 
come  as  I  choose,  and  Norman  Villiers  shall  be  an 
cccasional  privileged  visitor,  as  long  as  he  considers 
it  worth  his  while  to  make  himself  agreeable." 

"Which  will  be  always,"  said  Norman.  He  left 
his  seat  and  bent  over  to  kiss  her. 

"It  will  be  longer,  at  any  rate,"  said  she,  putting 
up  her  lips  to  meet  his,  "than  if  the  law  had  bound 
us  hand  and  foot." 

Villiers  remained  an  hour  or  two  later,  and  then 
65 


MR  AND  MRS   VILL1ERS 

went  back  to  his  hotel.  He  returned  on  the  fol- 
lowing morning,  bringing  with  him  his  personal  be- 
longings. This  time  he  entered  his  own  suite.  It 
was  precisely  similar  in  shape  and  design  with  that 
occupied  by  Rosamond,  and  was  furnished  with  a 
considerable  degree  of  bachelor  comfort.  Two 
easy  chairs  and  a  couch,  a  solid  oak  table,  a  pair  of 
long  bookcases  and  a  thick  carpet  formed  the  prin- 
cipal contents  of  the  sitting-room,  in  addition  to 
his  writing-table.  Norman  spent  the  morning  ar- 
ranging the  furniture  to  his  liking  and  hanging  the 
pictures.  In  the  afternoon  he  paid  a  visit  to  the 
Marylebone  bookseller,  and  returned  with  his  li- 
brary and  with  numerous  additional  books  which 
he  had  been  obliged  to  purchase.  He  dined  alone 
that  night.  Afterwards  he  brought  from  his  bag 
a  substantial  bundle  of  manuscript  and  some  clean 
sheets  of  sermon-paper,  which  he  placed  upon  the 
writing-table.  He  sat  down  before  it  and  took  up 
a  pen.  After  reading  more  than  once  the  last  two 
or  three  pages  he  had  written,  he  lost  touch  of  the 
subject  and  gazed  with  a  pensive,  somewhat  ab- 
stracted expression  about  the  room,  at  the  bright, 
new  furniture,  at  the  pictures  he  had  just  hung,  at 

66 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

the  fire  flickering  in  the  hearth.  He  sighed,  and 
again  read  the  last  of  his  previous  work.  Then  he 
got  up  and  poked  the  fire  and  lighted  a  pipe. 
Finally  he  dipped  his  pen  in  the  ink  and  began  to 
wite. 


CHAPTER  VII 

IT  was  ten  minutes  to  seven,  on  the  evening  of 
Marjorie's  conversation  with  her  sister,  when  Mr 
James  Baker  walked  up  to  the  door  of  his  Hamp- 
stead  residence  and  let  himself  in  with  his  latch- 
key. He  was  of  the  genial,  open,  optimistic  order 
of  beings — florid  and  clean-shaven,  save  for  a  thin 
growth  of  light  side-whisker — though  by  no  means 
to  be  accredited  with  the  comfortable  dulness  of 
wit  frequently  associated  with  those  adjectives.  An 
occasional,  but  decided,  compression  of  his  well- 
moulded  lips  and  the  kindly  gleam  in  his  good- 
humoured  eyes  effectually  dispersed  any  such  im- 
pression. He  had  not  yet  reached,  but  was  fast  ap- 
proaching, that  period  of  his  existence  when  he 
would  have  to  admit  his  figure  to  be  beyond  re- 
demption. At  present  it  still  afforded  him  some 
concern:  he  still  paid  periodical  visits  to  Conti- 
nental baths,  in  the  recurring  hope  that  they  would 
enable  him  to  resume  that  lightness  and  elasticity 

68 


MR  AND  MRS   VILL1ERS 

of  form  which  he  had  enjoyed  at  a  date  not  yet 
sufficiently  remote  to  reconcile  him  entirely  to  its 
loss.  A  capable  man  of  business  in  the  City,  a 
keen  sportsman  on  his  native  Yorkshire  heath,  al- 

• 

ways  cheerful,  always  courteous,  J.  J.  Baker  was 
popular  wherever  he  chose  to  go. 

He  placed  his  hat  on  the  rack,  and  had  succeeded 
in  pinioning  his  arms  in  the  sleeves  of  his  overcoat, 
in  his  efforts  to  remove  it,  when  his  wife  ran  down 
the  stairs  to  his  assistance. 

"I  didn't  hear  you  come  in,  dear,"  she  said; 
"you  are  early  to-night." 

She  released  his  left  arm,  receiving  in  return  an 
affectionate  kiss  on  the  right  cheek,  over  her  hus- 
band's shoulder. 

"Now  the  other  one,"  said  James;  whether  the 
sleeve  or  the  cheek  he  did  not  specify.  At  any 
rate,  she  extricated  his  right  arm  also,  and  was  re- 
warded by  the  complementary  salute  on  the  left 
cheek. 

Marion  followed  her  husband  to  his  dressing- 
room.  She  herself  had  already  dressed — had  pur- 
posely done  so,  in  order  to  be  able  to  talk  to  him 
in  the  half-hour's  interval  before  the  dinner-gong 
placed  them  at  the  mercy  of  the  receptive  ears  of 

69 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

the  servants.  It  was  an  occasional  practice  of  hers 
with  which  James  was  well  acquainted.  Accord- 
ingly, as  he  poured  out  his  hot  water,  he  prepared 
himself  to  give  an  attentive  ear  to  the  story  of 
some  hitch  in  the  domestic  machinery. 

"If  she  wants  to  give  the  cook  notice,"  he  said 
to  himself,  "I  shall  stick  up  for  her;  her  vol-au- 
vent  Toulouse  is  not  to  be  lightly  discarded." 

Pursuing  this  line  of  thought,  he  was  already 
evolving  a  small  mollifying  speech,  which,  while 
freely  accepting  all  her  premises,  fully  sharing  her 
consequent  very  natural  annoyance,  should  yet  ven- 
ture to  diverge  ever  so  slightly  from  her  conclu- 
sions, when  her  voice  interrupted  his  meditations. 

"Marjorie  has  been  here  to-day,"  she  said. 

"Really,"  said  James,  from  the  soap-suds;  "and 
how  is  our  little  Marjorie?" 

"Our  little  Marjorie,"  replied  his  wife,  "is  in 
very  serious  trouble,  James." 

James  assimilated  this  information  while  he 
scrubbed  his  face  with  a  big  towel,  imparting  an 
even  warmer  glow  to  his  beneficent  countenance. 
By  such-like  manoeuvres  he  was  firmly  under  the  im- 
pression that  he  had  succeeded,  through  life,  in  con- 
cealing the  natural  tenderness  of  his  heart  from  the 

70 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

observation  of  his  fellow-creatures,  and  particular- 
ly from  that  of  his  wife. 

He  threw  the  towel  over  the  rack.     "The  chil- 
dren?" he  asked. 
'  "No." 

"Not  Norman?" 

"Yes." 

Again  James  made  no  immediate  comment. 
This  time  the  collar  of  his  shirt  showed  exasperat- 
ing recalcitrance.  "We  had  better  send  Percival 
out,"  he  said,  presently.  "I've  no  faith  in  local 
men." 

Marion  smiled — an  affectionate,  sympathetic 
smile — partly  at  the  quaint  inutility  of  the  sugges- 
tion in  existing  circumstances,  partly  at  her  hus- 
band's strenuous  efforts  to  force  himself  into  a  tem- 
per. "It  is  not  illness,  dear,"  she  said,  quietly.  "It 
may  be  less  unfortunate  than  that,  it  may  be  much 
more;  I  can't  say  at  present.  Norman  has  gone 
away." 

James,  as  has  been  said,  was  no  fool.  The  last 
words — simple  enough  in  themselves — at  once  car- 
ried their  full  weight  to  his  mind;  but  he  was  so 
utterly  unprepared  for  them  that  at  first  he  could 
only  repeat,  "Gone  away?" 

71 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

Marion  made  no  comment;  and  presently  he 
added:  "It's  so  astonishingly  sudden  1  They  ap- 
peared to  me  to  get  on  uncommonly  well  together. 
Is  it  a  mutual  arrangement?" 

"Marjorie  had  no  wish  for  it." 

"Then  he  has  deserted  her?" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  amounts  to  that,"  said 
Marion;  "but  the  word  sounds  harsh.  He  has 
provided  for  her — quite  as  well  as  he  was  in  a  po- 
sition to  do." 

The  concluding  sentence — which  a  superficial 
mind  might  have  heralded  as  bearing  an  element  of 
alleviation — had  precisely  the  opposite  effect  upon 
James.  It  broke  upon  him  with  almost  a  greater 
shock  than  the  original  announcement.  For  it  car- 
ried a  suggestion  of  forethought  and  preparation, 
of  completeness  and  irrevocableness  in  the  whole 
thing,  which  was  vastly  disquieting;  and  excluded, 
definitely  and  decidedly,  the  encouraging  theory  of 
a  sudden  freak,  to  be  subsequently  regretted  and 
forgiven,  upon  which  his  mind  had  been  hopefully 
fixing. 

"Huml"  he  said,  at  length.  "It's  a  deucedly 
serious  situation,  Marion;  there's  very  little  doubt 
about  that.  I'm  afraid  it  looks  as  if  our  little  friend 

72 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

was  in  for  something  more  than  her  fair  share  of 
tribulation  for  some  time  to  come.  Poor  little 
Marjoriel  Poor  little  innocent  Marjoriel"  He 
gave  a  savage  pull  at  the  cravat  he  was  attempting 
to  tie.  "Confound  the  man! — the  tie!"  he  cor- 
rected, hastily,  throwing  the  offending  garment 
on  the  floor.  "I  beg  your  pardon,  Marion." 

"You  needn't,"  said  Marion,  smiling,  "you  said 
nothing." 

"I  intended  to,"  said  James.  He  dragged  out  a 
drawer  and  rummaged  in  the  interior.  "I  believe 
these  ties  are  specially  constructed  to  undermine 
the  moral  sense  and  drive  you  eventually  into  the 
regions  below." 

"Let  me  tie  it,  dear,"  said  Marion,  gently.  She 
took  the  tie  from  his  hand  and  placed  herself  in 
front  of  him. 

"At  present,"  proceeded  her  husband,  as  he  sub- 
mitted comfortably  to  the  ministrations  of  her  fair 
hands,  "I  hardly  know  enough  to  decide  what  is 
best  to  be  done.  Norman  isn't  the  man  to  be 
brow-beaten.  We  must  get  something  tangible  to 
work  on.  Do  you  know  anything  of  the  woman?" 
he  asked,  abruptly.  "Of  course  there  is  a  woman 
concerned?" 

.73 


MR  AND   MRS   FILLIERS 

"I  think  there  is,"  replied  Marion.  ("There!" 
she  interjected  parenthetically,  surveying  her  handi- 
work. "A  trained  valet  couldn't  have  done  it  bet- 
ter, I'm  sure.")  "Yes,  I  think  there  is  certainly 
a  woman,  James;  but  Marjorie  knows  nothing  of 
her  existence.  Everything  has  been  a  blinding 
shock  to  the  poor  child." 

James  proceeded  leisurely  to  fill  his  pockets  with 
various  small  articles  from  the  dressing-table.  "I 
feel  uncommonly  like  groping  in  the  dark,"  said 
he.  "You  are  not  keeping  anything  back,  my 
dear?  When  was  it  that  he  cut  off  in  this  extraor- 
dinary way?" 

"Last  night." 

"Without  explanation  ?  Come,  little  woman" — 
James  had  a  habit  of  calling  his  wife  "little 
woman,"  though,  to  be  sure,  the  epithet  was  not 
singularly  appropriate,  seeing  that  she  was  almost 
as  tall  as  himself — "you  must  treat  me  candidly 
if  I'm  to  be  of  any  use.  Was  there  a  scene?  Did 
he  have  no  conversation  with  her  before  he  went 
away?  How  does  she  know  about  this  monetary 
provision?  How  does  she  know  he  doesn't  intend 
to  return?" 

Marion  hesitated.  "He  left  a  letter,"  said  she. 
74 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

"Oh!"  The  deep  vowel  came  from  James's 
healthy  lungs  with  satisfying  fulness. 

"The  difficulty  between  them,"  Marion  con- 
tinued, after  an  appreciable  pause,  "is  a  delicate  one 
and  quite  personal.  Marjorie  was  very  anxious  to 
avoid  its  being  known— even  to  you.  But  I  really 
don't  see  how  you  can  help  her  if  you  are  kept  in 
the  dark.  What  do  you  think  yourself?" 

James  was  quite  free  from  any  idle  curiosity. 
He  took  a  moment  or  two  to  consider  the  question, 
and  then  replied:  "That  depends  a  good  deal 
upon  what  she  wishes  me  to  do." 

"Well,  in  the  first  place,"  said  Marion,  "she 
hasn't  an  idea  at  present  where  he  is.  I  told  her 
I  knew  you  would  manage  to  find  out  somehow, 
and  then  that  you  would  go  and  see  him." 

"I  foresee  a  pleasant  interview,"  said  James, 
drily. 

"It  won't  be  anything  else  if  you  are  there," 
said  Marion,  promptly.  "You  always  make  every- 
thing pleasant." 

James  flushed  slightly  with  pleasure.  Then  he 
took  her  soft,  white  hands,  and  looked  at  them  as 
they  lay,  sparkling  with  diamonds,  in  his  palms. 
He  pressed  them  to  his  lips.  "If  the  world  was 

75 


composed  of  fond  little  indulgent  wives,"  said  he, 
"that  would  be  an  easy  thing  to  do.  ...  He 
might  be  in  America." 

"Never  mind;  you  would  go." 

"But  what  would  become  of  the  business?" 

"You  would  manage,"  said  Marion,  without 
hesitation. 

She  was  not  "managing"  her  husband,  as  the 
phrase  is.  Every  word  she  uttered  was  the  simple 
expression  of  her  thoughts,  founded  on  her  perfect 
confidence,  not  only  in  his  capability,  but  in  his  good- 
ness of  heart.  Capable  and  self-reliant  herself,  if 
occasion  needed,  she  had  plumbed  the  depth  of  her 
husband's  nature,  and  was  content  to  repose  in  what 
she  found  there. 

James  laughed.  "Well,  we'll  go  into  that  when 
the  time  comes,"  he  said.  "But,  at  any  rate,  I  can't 
pretend  to  be  able  to  argue  with  a  man  without  a 
nodding  acquaintance  with  the  point  of  difference 
between  us,  so  I  am  afraid  the  secret  will  have  to 
come  out.  Examine  the  keyhole,  my  dear,  and 
then  tell  me  the  little  difficulty."  He  took  up  a 
brush  and  comb,  and,  turning  to  the  glass,  addressed 
himself  to  the  never  satisfactory  task  of  making  a 
little  go  a  long  way. 

76 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

It  took  him  some  minutes  to  complete  the  pro- 
cess, and  by  the  time  he  had  finished  his  wife  had 
not  spoken.  He  turned  round.  Marion  was  de- 
cidedly blushing. 

""Good    gracious!"    said    James.      An    amused 
smile  gradually  invaded  his  face. 

"Don't  laugh  at  me,  James,"  said  Marion,  half 
apologetically.  "It's  really  very  difficult.  Oh, 
you  dear  old  stupid !"  she  added,  "can't  you  guess?" 

"Looking  at  your  very  pretty  embarrassment, 
my  dear,"  said  James,  "I  could  possibly  make  a 
tolerable  shot  at  the  general  nature  of  the  difficulty. 
But  why,  in  the  name  of  fortune,  this  violent 
estrangement?"  A  merry  twinkle  shot  into  his 
good-humoured  eyes.  "Rather  the  reverse  of  the 
ordinary  way  of  things,"  he  added,  wickedly. 

Marion  blushed  again;  but  this  time  she  came 
up  to  him  and  laid  her  two  hands  on  his  shoulders. 
"James,  dear,"  she  said,  "supposing  I  were  very, 
very  virtuous?" 

"You  couldn't  be  more  virtuous  than  you  are, 
little  woman,"  said  James,  quietly. 

"Well  then,  supposing  I — supposing  I  were  less 
human  than — than  I  am?"  she  finished,  and  sud- 
denly cast  down  her  eyes. 

77 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

James  raised  her  head  and  kissed  her.  "I  under- 
stand," he  said.  Then,  suddenly,  almost  with  a 
laugh,  "Perfectly  preposterous!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Don't  judge  him  hastily,"  said  Marion.  "Let 
us  be  quite  fair.  Wait  till  you  have  heard  every- 
thing." 

Then  she  told  him.  If  she  had  formed  an 
opinion  herself,  it  was  not  apparent  in  her  nar- 
rative. She  related  the  facts  quite  simply  and  im- 
partially, without  omission  and  without  exaggera- 
tion. That  may  seem  to  us,  theoretically,  a  suf- 
ficiently easy  thing  to  do.  But  if  you  feel  any 
doubt  of  its  practical  difficulty,  reader,  take  the 
history  of  any  disagreement  within  your  knowledge, 
public  or  private,  and  endeavour  to  explain  it  with- 
out betraying  on  which  side  your  own  sympathies 
lie. 

James  heard  her  through  without  remark.  Then 
he  repeated,  deliberately,  his  previous  comment: 
"Perfectly  preposterous !"  He  took  a  clean  hand- 
kerchief from  a  drawer  and  turned  down  the  light, 
and  then  condescended  to  supplement  that  observa- 
tion with  another,  equally  explicit:  "A  pair  of 
noodles!" 


78 


CHAPTER  VIII 

JAMES  followed  his  wife  down  to  the  dining- 
room.  Their  tete-a-tete  dinner  was  never  an  oc- 
casion of  much  spontaneity  between  them.  To- 
night it  was  peculiarly  the  reverse.  The  presence 
of  the  maid  closed  the  door  to  the  only  topic  they 
could  either  of  them  pretend  to  take  an  interest  in. 
It  is  curious  to  remark  that,  whereas  the  members 
of  a  party  of  four  or  five  allow  their  tongues  a 
laxity,  before  servants,  to  the  point  of  glaring  in- 
discretion, as  soon  as  the  numbers  are  reduced  to 
two  the  presence  of  an  attendant  pair  of  ears  acts 
as  a  dead  bar  upon  any  interchange  of  ideas  beyond 
the  merest  commonplace.  It  was,  therefore,  not 
until  they  were  left  alone,  and  James  had  turned 
his  chair  to  the  fire,  a  glass  of  Burgundy  at  his 
elbow,  a  cigar  between  his  lips,  his  shirt-front  bulg- 
ing in  a  post-prandial  parabolic  curve,  that  they 
were  at  liberty  to  follow  their  inclinations  in  the 
choice  of  a  subject  for  discussion. 

79 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

Marion  rose  from  her  seat  and  poured  water 
into  the  vases  of  flowers  which  stood  on  the  table. 
The  process  bringing  her  to  her  husband's  end  of 
the  board,  she  replenished  his  glass  from  the  de- 
canter, the  latter  directing  the  precise  limit  of  the 
operation  with  a  virtuous  forefinger.  He  laboured 
under  the  singular  hallucination,  in  the  face  of  con- 
siderable discouragement,  that  he  was  in  the  habit 
of  drinking  one  half-glass  of  Burgundy  after  din- 
ner. His  wife,  however,  had  no  illusions  either  as 
to  its  generous  measure  or  its  steady  repetition. 
Accordingly,  the  virtuous  forefinger  passed  un- 
heeded. 

He  raised  the  broad  V-shaped  glass  to  his  lips 
with  affectionate  deliberation.  "A  wonderful 
wine!"  he  said.  (He  said  it  every  night.)  "If 
Norman  had  been  built  on  that,  instead  of  on  weak 
tea  and  weaker  whisky-and-water,  we  should  have 
had  none  of  these  monkey  tricks."  He  passed  his 
hand  vaguely  over  the  decanters.  "What  are  you 
drinking,  my  dear?" 

Marion  was  drinking  nothing,  and  said  so,  as 
she  always  did.  To-night,  however,  he  pressed  the 
point.  "You  are  not  looking  quite  yourself,  little 
woman;  this  business  has  worried  you."  He  re- 

80 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

moved  the  stopper  from  the  port  decanter.  "A 
glass  of  this  '78  is  the  best  medicine  in  the  world 
for  you." 

Marion  repudiated  the  necessity  with  a  smile, 
but  she  allowed  him  to  fill  her  glass,  and  then  drew 
a  footstool  to  the  hearth  and  sat  down  upon  it, 
breaking  the  coal  into  a  brighter  flame.  It  must 
be  confessed  that  James's  reflections  on  her  appear- 
ance seemed  to  have  singularly  little  to  justify 
them.  As  she  sat  by  the  fire  in  her  dinner-gown 
of  pale  yellow,  relieved  here  and  there  by  ribbons 
of  a  deeper  shade,  her  dark  hair  coiled  abundantly 
on  her  head,  her  shapely  neck  and  shoulders, 
flooded  in  the  warm  light,  rising  with  almost  stately 
grace  from  the  laces  at  her  bosom,  a  soft  under- 
glow  of  colour  in  her  smooth  cheeks,  she  conveyed 
the  impression  of  one  whose  desirable  exterior  was 
the  product,  not  only  of  excellent  health  at  the 
moment,  but  of  the  absence  of  any  serious  lapse 
from  it  during  the  thirty-odd  years  of  her  ex- 
istence. 

"I  shouldn't  have  taken  Norman  to  be  that  sort 
of  a  man,"  proceeded  James,  reflectively.  "Some 
of  my  very  best  stories  have  often  fallen  flat  in  his 
neighbourhood." 

81 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

"Perhaps  it  was  too  serious  a  matter  with  him 
to  joke  about,"  said  Marion,  quietly. 

James  looked  at  her  with  mild  surprise.  "Why, 
my  dear,"  he  said,  "I'm  inclined  to  think  that  you 
lean  to  the  side  of  this  home-wrecker." 

• 

"No,"  said  Marion,  "not  quite  that.  But  I 
think  Marjorie  is  a  little  goose  to  ruin  her  happi- 
ness in  this  way.  She  is  so  desperately  fond  of 
him  all  the  time — that  makes  it  almost  exasperat- 
ing. She  is  breaking  her  heart  for  him;  I  believe 
she  loves  him  just  as  much  as  it  is  possible  for  a 
woman  to  love  a  man." 

"Supposing,"  said  James,  slowly, — "I  don't  say 
there  is  a  great  chance  of  it,  I  don't  think  there  is — 
but  supposing  we  could  induce  him  to  come  back 
to  her,  would  she  be  different?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Marion;  "I  doubt  it.  I 
know  she  would  try." 

"It  occurs  to  me,"  said  James,  "if  you  will  for- 
give the  blasphemy,  my  dear,  that  when  the  Creator 
made  Marjorie,  he  overlooked  the  fact  that  she 
would  have  to  pass  through  this  world  on  her  way 
to  the  next." 

He  carefully  broke  the  ash  from  his  cigar,  then 
added,  drily:  "It  is  almost  as  unfortunate  as  to  be 

88 


ME  AND   MRS   FILLIERS 

furnished,  like  many  of  us,  with  paraphernalia  of 
too  exclusively  mundane  utility." 

Marion  shook  her  head  in  smiling  denial  of  the 
remark's  personal  application.  Then  suddenly  she 
looked  up.  "Can  you  find  him,  James?" 

"In  the  course  of  time,"  said  James,  "I  think  so, 
decidedly.  Unless  he  intends  to  relinquish  his  ca- 
reer, he  must  keep  in  touch  somewhere.  I  will 
make  some  inquiries  to-morrow.  If  I  can't  trace 
him  myself,  I  must  employ  someone  who  can." 

"That  is  really  a  detail,"  he  proceeded,  presently. 
"The  important  point  to  consider  is,  what  is  to 
be  done  afterwards.  To  begin  with,  I  take  it  for 
granted  that  Marjorie  isn't  thinking  of  divorce?" 

"Oh,  no." 

"She  would  take  him  back  again?" 

"Yes." 

"In  any  case?    Whatever  has  happened?" 

"Whatever  has  happened,"  said  Marion. 

"Very  well,  then  we'll  take  a  cheerful  view,"  said 
James,  blithely.  "If  we  can  get  them  to  make  up 
the  quarrel,  this  little  breeze  may  help  them  to 
understand  one  another  in  the  future,  which  they 
evidently  haven't  succeeded  in  doing  hitherto.  Con- 

83 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

stitutional  difference  is  all  moonshine,  in  my  opin- 


ion." 


Marion  looked  at  him  gravely  and  shook  her 
head.  "It  is  real,  James,"  she  said. 

James  indulged  in  a  good-humoured  unbelieving 
laugh,  and  helped  himself  to  his  third  half-glass 
of  Burgundy.  "Have  it  as  you  will,"  he  said. 
"We  must  do  the  best  we  can,  in  any  case,  to  get 
this  runaway  back  to  the  nest.  If  we  fail — " 

"Yes?"  said  Marion. 

"If  we  fail,"  he  said  off-handedly,  almost  de- 
fiantly, "we  shall  have  to  make  the  future  as  bright 
as  we  can  for  Marjorie.  We  can't  let  her  mope 
out  the  rest  of  her  life  in  solitude," — the  last  as  if 
refuting  a  contrary  assertion. 

"No,  dear,"  said  Marion,  quietly.  How  well 
she  knew  this  husband  of  hers! 

"You  admit  that  yourself — the  thing's  obvious. 
Then  I  really  see  no  reason — for  the  life  of  me  I 
can  see  no  reason" — his  temper  was  decidedly  ris- 
ing— "why,  in  that  case,  she  shouldn't  come  here 
with  the  children — permanently — to  live!  There's 
room  enough,  in  all  conscience!"  He  savagely 
flicked  the  ash  from  his  cigar,  and  stuck  it  back 
into  the  corner  of  his  mouth. 

84 


MR  AND  MRS   VILL1ERS 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  Marion 
avoided  the  wrathful  gaze  of  her  lord  and  master 
— which,  by-the-by,  was  directed  to  the  chimney- 
piece.  Then,  slowly,  she  crept  from  her  place  and 
slid  between  his  knees,  wound  her  soft  arms  round 
his  substantial  waist,  and  rested  her  cheek  upon  the 
aforesaid  parabolic  curve  of  his  shirt-front,  press- 
ing it  back  into  place.  And  if  James  could  have 
looked  into  her  face,  he  would  have  known  that  her 
eyes  were  glistening  and  that  just  then  it  would 
have  been  difficult  for  her  to  speak. 

But  he  was  not  very  conveniently  situated  to  look 
into  her  face;  and  so  it  happened  that,  after  his 
surprise  had  evaporated,  he  burst  into  a  sudden 
hearty  roar  of  laughter.  "Of  all  the  incomprehen- 
sible, illogical  little  women!"  he  exclaimed.  "If 
ever  I  forget  myself  and  let  you  have  a  glimpse  of 
my  infernal  temper,  you  treat  me  as  if  I  had  been 
paying  you  pretty  compliments  by  the  hour.  It's 
not  a  very  sound  policy,  my  dear,  because  it  tempts 
me  to  become  the  deuce  of  an  irascible  bear."  His 
hand  wandered  caressingly  over  as  much  of  his  wife 
as  he  could  reach;  and  presently  she  returned  to 
her  seat  by  the  fire. 

85 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

There  was  a  considerable  interval  of  silence. 
Then  James  said  suddenly:  "Where  is  she  now?" 

"Marjorie?    She  has  gone  home." 

"Home?"    The  word  sounded  strange. 

"To  Weybridge.  I  couldn't  keep  her,  dear," 
Marion  went  on.  "You  see,  there  are  the  children 
to  be  considered.  Now  especially  she  wouldn't 
leave  them." 

"Send  for  her  to-morrow,"  said  James,  emphati- 
cally, "nurse,  children,  the  whole  lot  of  them.  She 
can't  stay  in  that  house  alone  after  what  has  hap- 
pened. I  shall  be  glad  to  have  them.  I'm  fond 
of  children." 

"You  are  not,"  said  Marion. 

"My  dear  1" 

"They  get  on  your  nerves  and  upset  you. 
You're  not  used  to  them." 

"I  fancy  I've  got  a  wife,"  said  James,  "who 
pampers  my  nerves  a  great  deal  more  than  is  good 
for  them." 

The  wife  in  question  smiled  a  flat  denial  of  the 
accusation,  her  calm  eyes  looking  straight  into  his; 
and  eventually  it  was  agreed  that  Marjorie  and  her 
children  should  be  invited  to  stay  with  them,  at 
any  rate  until  something  had  been  arranged — a 

86 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

phrase  which  they  were  both  willing,  for  the  pres- 
ent, to  leave  conveniently  vague. 

At  half-past  ten  Marion  rose,  gave  a  small  yawn, 
and  announced  her  intention  of  going  to  bed.  She 
picked  up  two  or  three  books  from  a  side  table, 
kissed  her  husband,  and  went  towards  the  door. 
On  her  way  she  turned  suddenly — a  quick  blush  on 
her  face — came  rustling  back  to  him,  and  kissed 
him  again. 

"Don't  be  long,"  she  said.    Then  she  went. 


CHAPTER  IX 

AT  eleven  o'clock  on  the  following  morning,  in 
pursuit  of  his  undertaking  to  "make  some  in- 
quiries," James  Baker  ascended  the  not  conspicu- 
ously snowy  steps  of  the  publishing  house  of 
Clarke,  Thornton  &  Co.  He  was  slightly  ac- 
quainted with  Thornton — had  met  him  once  or 
twice  at  Villiers'  house — and  was  admitted  without 
delay  to  the  invigorating  presence  of  that  gentle- 
man. The  latter  rose,  as  he  entered,  from  a  desk 
whose  hopeless  disarray  had  frequently  worried  the 
susceptible  nerves  of  Villiers,  and  greeted  him 
heartily.  Heartiness  was  spontaneous  with  him 
and  difficult  to  control.  Nothing  caused  him 
greater  distress  than  the  necessity,  too  often  forced 
upon  him  by  his  position,  to  brush  the  pleasing 
bloom  of  fresh  enthusiasm  from  some  misguided 
aspirant  to  literary  distinction.  No  such  unpleas- 
ant duty  appeared  to  be  foreshadowed  on  the  pres- 
ent occasion,  and  he  was  therefore  free  to  give  full 
expansion  to  his  natural  amiability. 

88 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

"This  is  real  good  luck,  Mr  Baker.  Upon  my 
soul,  I'm  delighted!  You're  one  of  the  people 
one  sees  too  little  of.  You  find  me  in  rather  a 
mess,  I'm  afraid.  But  sit  down,  do" — removing  a 
pile  of  papers  from  an  easy-chair  and  dropping 
them  on  the  floor.  "Now  what  can  I  do  for  you? 
Have  you  brought  me  a  volume  of  sonnets?" 

The  perfect  security  indicated  by  his  beaming 
countenance,  as  he  put  the  last  inquiry,  appealed 
suddenly  and  irresistibly  to  James's  sense  of 
humour. 

"No,  I  haven't,"  he  answered,  with  a  frank  burst 
of  laughter;  "but  I  should  like  to  see  how  you'd 
take  it  if  I  had." 

The  publisher  was  delighted.  His  hearty  laugh 
responded  to  James's  with  vigorous  enjoyment. 
"Fairly  had!"  he  cried.  "You  leave  me  without 
a  loophole!  To  be  honest,  Mr  Baker,  we  don't 
publish  poetry;  and,  in  your  ear,  I  may  add  that 
I've  more  than  a  doubt  whether  I  know  good  from 
bad." 

"Then  we  shan't  quarrel  on  the  subject,"  said 
James.  He  took  the  easy-chair.  "I  haven't  come 
to  add  to  your  professional  embarrassments,  Mr 

89 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

Thornton,  or  to  your  accumulation  of — "  A  glance 
at  the  prevailing  disorder. 

"Litter,"  said  Thornton,  "litter." 

"Nor  to  waste  your  time,"  proceeded  James, 
blandly;  "though,  on  that  point,  appearances  may 
be  against  me.  My  errand  is  rather  a  peculiar  one. 
I  want  to  know  if  you  can  tell  me  what  has  become 
of  Villiers?" 

"What?"  exclaimed  Mr  Thornton. 

"Just  what  I  say.     He  has  vanished." 

"Good  lord!"  said  the  publisher. 

His  face  had  changed.  "You  are  not  altogether 
surprised?"  said  James,  watching  him. 

"Not  quite  that.  I  knew  it,  but  I  didn't  see  it 
— if  you  grasp  the  distinction.  You  don't,  I  hope, 
fear — ?"  His  voice  dropped. 

"Suicide?    Not  in  the  least,"  said  James. 

"That's  a  relief!  You  startled  me.  Villiers  is 
an  inscrutable  being  at  times." 

"Undoubtedly,"  replied  his  relative,  with  con- 
viction. "What  do  you  know?" 

"Precious  little,  I'm  sorry  to  say."  He  started 
to  rummage  in  his  pigeon-holes.  "Practically  noth- 
ing. I  ran  across  him  yesterday  in  the  street — 
somewhere  in  Holborn." 

90 


"The  deuce  you  did!"  said  James.  "If  he  was 
in  London  yesterday,  the  probability  is  that  he's 
not  very  far  from  London  to-day." 

"I  wouldn't  even  say  that.  He  told  me  he  was 
going  away.  But  he  was  vague,  decidedly.  Now, 
why  did  I  get  the  idea  of  the  Mediterranean?" 
He  stopped  his  search  and  pressed  the  tips  of  his 
fingers  to  his  brow.  "Ah!  He  hinted  at  local 
colour;  and  we've  got  into  the  habit  of  going  to  the 
South  with  him." 

James  was  inclined  to  think  that  the  local  colour 
was  not  particularly  likely  to  have  a  determining 
influence  upon  his  brother-in-law's  movements  for 
the  present;  but  he  kept  the  opinion  to  himself. 

"He  struck  me  as  being  a  bit  off  colour,"  pro- 
ceeded the  publisher,  resuming  his  quest  among  the 
pigeon-holes;  "nothing  definite — but  hardly  up  to 
the  mark.  And  he  gave  me  the  address  of  his  so- 
licitors. Dear  me !  I  seem  to  have  mislaid  it." 

"I  know  them,"  said  James:  "Markham,  Flood 
&  Spindle.  Spindle  is  the  active  man.  I  must  go 
and  see  him." 

"No  good,"  said  Thornton,  with  a  decided,  but 
sympathetic,  shake  of  his  head;  "professional  confi- 
dence." 

91 


MR  AND   MRS   FILLIERS 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know  all  about  that,"  said  James, 
with  a  laugh.  He  rose,  not  without  a  perceptible 
effort,  from  the  easy-chair.  "But  we  live  in  mov- 
ing times,  Mr  Thornton,  and  to  my  mind  the  only 
sound  policy  is  to  keep  going  straight  on,  what- 
ever gets  in  the  way.  In  matters  of  business  I'll 
undertake  to  say  that,  nine  times  out  of  ten,  the 
frontal  attack  will  capture  the  position  two  or  three 
days  before  the  flanking  movement  crawls  out  of 
the  mountains." 

"Unless  it  gets  mixed  up  with  the  barbed  wire," 
commented  the  publisher,  smiling. 

"That's  likely  enough  in  this  case,"  agreed 
James.  "But  because  you  probably  won't  get  what 
you  want  by  asking  for  it,  doesn't  alter  the  fact 
that  you  certainly  won't  if  you  don't." 

"You'll  start  at  fifty  to  one,"  said  Thornton, 
with  brisk  enjoyment,  as  he  shook  hands,  "rather 
than  scratch  the  brute?" 

"Every  time,"  said  James;  and,  as  he  descended 
the  stairs,  he  was  followed  for  two  flights  by  the 
publisher's  hearty  laughter. 

When  he  had  said  that  he  knew  the  firm  of 
Markham,  Flood  &  Spindle,  James  used  the  ex- 
pression in  the  sense  that  he  knew  who  they  were. 

92 


MR  AND   MRS   VILL1ERS 

He  had  no  personal  acquaintance  with  any  of  the 
partners.  However,  when  he  approached  the  of- 
fices and  came  plump  into  a  gentleman  who  was 
emerging  from  the  door  at  a  pace  which  tempted 
you  to  look  for  his  registered  number,  he  knew 
sufficient  of  Mr  Spindle  by  report  to  hazard  the 
inquiry  that  he  was  addressing  the  owner  of  that 
name.  Mr  Spindle  stopped  dead,  the  monocle 
flashed  to  his  eye,  and  for  two  seconds  the  whole 
of  Mr  Baker's  person  came  under  a  penetrating 
scrutiny.  Then  the  solicitor  set  off  again  at  the 
same  rate  as  before,  conveying  by  a  quick,  but  not 
discourteous,  gesture  that  James  was  at  liberty  to 
accompany  him  if  he  wished,  an  invitation  which 
the  latter  accepted  at  some  personal  inconvenience. 
Yes,  he  was  Mr  Spindle.  At  the  moment  he 
was  exceedingly  busy.  Would  his  interlocutor  be 
so  good  as  to  favour  him  with  his  name  and  the 
nature  of  his  business?  Indeed!  He  was  glad  to 
make  Mr  Baker's  acquaintance.  Yes,  he  was  in 
possession  of  Mr  Villiers'  present  address,  but  he 
regretted  he  was  not  at  liberty  to  disclose  it.  He 
should  be  happy,  however,  to  forward  any  letters 
which  Mr  Baker  might  wish  to  send.  He  might 
add  that  he  was  not  unprepared  to  be  approached 

93 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

by  the  family  of  Mrs  Villiers.  He  was  fully  in- 
structed; and  Mr  Baker  would  understand  him  if 
he  were  to  suggest  that,  for  the  purpose  of  any  fu- 
ture communication,  it  would  be  more  regular  if  he 
were  to  avail  himself  of  the  medium  of  his  solici- 
tors. 

Whereupon  Mr  Spindle  dropped  his  eye-glass, 
wished  him  a  curt  good-morning,  and  darted  across 
the  street,  leaving  James  with  rather  the  impres- 
sion that  a  hurricane  had  passed  over  him  and  re- 
moved his  top  canvases. 

But  he  felt  not  the  least  aggrieved.  On  the  con- 
trary, his  heart  warmed  with  a  sympathetic  glow 
of  admiration.  "Sound  man  of  business !"  he  com- 
mented mentally,  as  he  stopped  to  recover  his 
breath,  and  watched  the  solicitor's  rapidly  retreat- 
ing figure.  "Doesn't  waste  time  when  a  thing 
has  no  money  in  it.  Wish  I  had  him  to  travel  in 
Lancashire."  And  he  thought,  with  a  twinge  of 
regret,  of  the  conscientious  but  somewhat  cumbrous 
methods  of  the  elderly  man  of  affairs  (whom  he 
would  not  for  the  world  have  deserted)  who,  for 
more  than  a  generation,  had  solemnly  steered  his 
family  barque  through  legal  waters. 


CHAPTER  X 

NEVERTHELESS,  in  this  particular  instance, 
James  was  fain  to  confess  that  the  frontal  attack 
had  signally  failed,  and  by  the  time  he  took  his 
way  back  to  Hampstead,  the  details  of  an  indubi- 
table and  insidious  flanking  movement  were  already 
fermenting  in  his  brain. 

It  was  the  furtherance  of  this  design  which  was 
responsible  for  the  fact  that,  when  Marion  arrived 
home  a  few  minutes  after  her  husband,  she  found 
him  scanning  his  book-shelves  with  an  expression 
of  considerable  perplexity  and  concern.  And, 
indeed,  it  was  no  easy  matter,  as  he  was  beginning 
to  find  out,  to  select,  from  his  motley  collection  of 
sporting  novels  and  out-of-date  biographies  and 
gazetteers,  any  volumes  which  might  reasonably 
pass  muster  as  being  of  immediate  and  urgent  ne- 
cessity to  Villiers. 

His  wife's  greeting  chased  away  the  furrows  on 
his  face  and  re-established  its  accustomed  serenity. 

95 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

She  was  dressed  in  furs,  and  the  chill  outside  air 
had  given  her  a  colour:  certainly,  from  her  little 
sable  toque  to  the  tips  of  her  pointed  shoes,  a  far 
more  desirable  object  to  look  upon  than  a  flat  block 
of  dull  morocco  and  faded  cloth,  even  to  a  man  of 
literary  tastes,  which  James  was  not. 

"Why,  you're  late,  little  woman,"  said  he. 
"Have  you  been  to  Weybridge?" 

"I've  been  there  all  day." 

"How  did  you  find  her?" 

"Resigned,"  said  Marion,  "but  very  sorrowful, 
poor  child.  James,  I  am  beginning  to  feel  very 
angry  with  Norman.  I  don't  think  he  has  behaved 
rightly,  whatever  his  excuse.  Perhaps  he  didn't 
know  how  much  she  would  feel  it." 

"Rightly  I"  exclaimed  James.  He  was  amazed. 
"He  has  behaved  abominably." 

"It  is  the  loss  of  him  which  hurts  her  so  much," 
proceeded  Marion.  "His  probable  unfaithfulness 
she  hardly  thinks  about.  If  he  had  stayed  with 
her,  I  think  she  could  have  forgiven  that — gladly." 

James  considered  it  incumbent  upon  him  to  be 
shocked.  "My  dear!"  he  said. 

"I  am  perfectly  serious,  James.  In  the  circum- 
stances— knowing  what  she  knows  now — I  think 

96 


she  could  have  beer,  content,  I  think  she  could  even 
have  been  glad,  that  it  should  be  so." 

This  was  beyond  everything.  James  had  all  the 
middle-class  respect  for  accepted  tenets,  and  his 
wife's  present  observations  seriously  jarred  upon  it. 
That  married  couples  should  occasionally  fail  to 
agree,  should  occasionally  separate  and  form  new 
attachments,  was  a  condition  of  human  affairs 
which  he  was  sufficiently  man-of-the-world  to  accept 
without  blinking.  But  that  a  man  should  live  with 
his  wife  and  be  unfaithful  with  her  consent! 
Gracious  heavens !  it  would  be  a  living  scandal ! 
Against  which  his  stolid  soul  revolted  unspeakably. 

He  cleared  his  throat  judiciously:  a  sure  indica- 
tion that  he  had  apprehended  a  necessity  to  instil 
into  his  wife's  crude  ideas  some  corrective  wisdom 
from  the  deeper  wells  of  his  masculine  intelligence. 

But  Marion  knew  the  symptoms  and  made  haste 
to  intercept  him.  She  tapped  him  on  the  shoulder 
with  the  handle  of  her  umbrella.  "Don't  look  so 
solemn,"  she  said.  "You  men  have  a  very  rigid 
standard  of  social  ethics,  and  you  pat  one  another 
on  the  back  a  great  deal  in  consequence,  and  think 
you  are  very  wise  and  virtuous;  but  that  doesn't 
make  it  infallible  in  every  case.  Because  macaroni 

97 


MR  AND  MRS  VILLIERS 

cheese  is  a  generally  wholesome  food,"  she  added, 
mischievously,  "it  doesn't  follow  that  it  is  the  best 
nutriment  for  a  man  with  a  liver." 

"It  all  depends  upon  the  way  it's  made,"  said 
James,  with  lofty  affectation  of  impersonal  com- 
ment. "By-the-by,  we  haven't  had  any  lately." 

"We  haven't,"  said  Marion.  She  began  to 
smile;  then  she  caught  his  eye  and  the  smile  broke 
into  a  laugh ;  and  finally  they  both  laughed  together 
— happily,  joyously,  like  two  children. 

"Did  you  tell  her  to  pack  up  and  come  here?" 
said  James. 

"Yes;  they  are  coming  on  Friday.  It  is  all 
rather  difficult  to  arrange.  The  servants,  for  in- 
stance— whether  they  are  to  be  dismissed.  None 
of  the  neighbours  know  anything  as  yet." 

"And  need  not,"  said  James,  with  decision. 
"Unless  Norman  goes  back  there,  neither  shall 
Marjorie.  Then  their  tongues  can  wag  with  as 
little  profit  as  usual,  and  with  less  harm.  As  for 
the  servants,  put  them  on  board  wages  for  the  pres- 
ent. We  must  do  everything  we  can  to  make  things 
cheerful  for  our  little  lady — take  her  to  theatres, 
drive  her  about,  try  to  turn  her  thoughts.  I'm  be- 
ginning to  doubt  very  shrewdly  whether  we  shall 

98 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

succeed  in  inducing  this  husband  of  hers  to  see  the 
error  of  his  ways." 

"You  thought  so  before." 

"I  think  so  more  now.  There  seems  to  have 
been  a  confounded  deliberation  about  all  his  plans. 
I've  been  to  see  Thornton  to-day — nice  fellow 
Thornton !  He  said  Norman  had  told  him  he  was 
going  away  and  had  left  his  solicitors'  address  for 
letters.  He  seemed  to  think  he  intended  to  go  to 
the  Mediterranean,  though  I  can't  say  I  saw  much 
in  his  reasoning.  Then  I  went  and  saw  Spindle — 
smart  man,  Spindle !  He  knows  exactly  how  every- 
thing stands — the  whereabouts  of  Norman  in- 
cluded. Uncommonly  little  he  doesn't  know,  I 
should  say." 

"Of  course  he  didn't  tell  you?"  said  Marion. 

"No,  he  didn't  tell  me,"  said  James.  "But  I 
haven't  done  with  him  yet."  His  genial  counte- 
nance broadened,  and  Marion  caught  an  indubi- 
table smile. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  said  she. 

"Trick  him,"  replied  James,  with  delight. 
'  'Smart  man,  Spindle !'  "  said  Marion,  laugh- 
ing. 

"Yes,    my   dear,"    returned   James,   with   com- 
99 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

posure;  "but  I've  discounted  the  smartness  and  I 
fancy  I  can  still  show  a  margin  of  profit.  We  may 
not  be  able  to  run  Norman  to  earth  all  at  once,  but 
I  see  a  fair  chance  of  getting  on  his  track.  To  be- 
gin with,  we  can  communicate  with  him  any  mo- 
ment we  like,  through  Spindle.  Now,  if  we  send 
a  letter  for  him,  whether  he  is  in  London  or 
Kamtchatka,  it  will  be  dropped  into  the  nearest 
pillar-box,  and  we  shall  be  no  wiser." 

"Yes,  I  see,"  said  Marion.  "So  you  want  to 
send  something  bulky  and  then  watch  the  office?" 

"Of  course !"  said  James.  "I'd  double  the  screw 
of  a  clerk  who  could  grasp  things  as  quickly  as 
you.  It  will  teach  us  something,  at  any  rate.  If 
he's  in  the  country,  they'll  send  it  by  parcel  post  or 
by  rail;  if  he's  abroad,  they  won't  forward  it  at  all, 
I  should  say,  without  special  instructions  from 
him ;  if  he's  in  London,  it  will  probably  be  delivered 
by  hand." 

"It  may  be  successful,"  said  Marion;  "but  it 
seems  rather  mean." 

"Is  it?"  said  James.  "Perhaps  it  is."  His  face 
clouded. 

"But  I  think  we'll  do  it,"  said  Marion,  suddenly, 
laughing. 

100 


MR  AND   MRS   VILLIERS 

"Then  it's  not  mean,"  said  James,  with  decision. 
"Books  are  the  best  things  for  the  purpose.  I 
think  you  had  better  go  out  to  Weybridge  again 
to-morrow  and  bring  two  or  three  of  his  own."  He 
waved  his  hand  contemptuously  to  his  own  shelves : 
"There's  nothing  here." 

"Neither  is  there  there,"  said  Marion,  smiling; 
"he  has  taken  them." 

"What  hasn't  he  done  in  the  way  of  cold-blooded 
preparation?"  said  James,  resignedly.  "Well,  we 
must  take  the  best  of  the  material  here.  If  we 
wrap  them  up  in  brown  paper,  it  won't  be  of  vast 
consequence,  after  all,  what  the  books  are  about." 
He  pricked  up  his  ears  at  a  sound  from  the  hall. 
"What's  that?  Good  gracious,  my  dear,  do  you 
know  that  dinner  is  going  in?"  He  bolted  from 
the  room  and  up  the  stairs,  taking  two  steps  at  a 
time,  a  method  of  ascewt  which  he  only  adopted  on 
occasions  of  singular  urgency. 

Later  in  the  evening  the  parcel  was  made  up. 
As  Marion  tied  the  string  she  suddenly  gave  vent 
to  a  ripple  of  laughter. 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  James. 

"I'm  wondering  what  Norman  will  think  when 
he  opens  it,"  said  she. 

101 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

Afterwards  James  wrote  a  note  to  Mr  Spindle 
and  slipped  it  under  the  string.  Then  he  stood 
up,  the  fingers  of  one  hand  touching  the  completed 
parcel,  and  looked  across  at  his  wife. 

"You  must  understand,  my  dear,"  said  he,  "that 
I  take  no  part — that  I  take  not  one  step  in  bring- 
ing these  two  together  again  upon  any  such  terms 
as  you  hinted  at  this  afternoon." 

Marion  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  deep  into 
his,  and  a  soft  light  of  sympathy — the  sympathy 
that  is  born  of  years  of  mutual  understanding— 
gradually  flooded  and  filled  her  own.  Without 
speaking,  she  placed  a  hand  on  each  of  his  shoulders 
and  kissed  him  on  the  mouth. 

On  the  following  day  James  had  an  interview 
with  his  office-boy  in  his  private  room,  resulting  in, 
the  transfer  of  the  brown-paper  parcel  to  the  cus- 
tody of  that  eminent  being.  No  news  of  its  sub- 
sequent fortunes  reached  him  up  to  the  time  he  left 
the  City.  But  in  the  evening,  as  he  and  Marion 
were  sitting  at  dessert,  a  maid  entered  to  say  that 
a  young  man  from  the  office  had  called  to  see  him. 

James  looked  across  at  his  wife.  "Show  him  in," 
he  said. 

"In  here,  sir?"  said  the  maid,  with  some  surprise. 
102 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

"Yes,"  replied  James,  "in  here." 

The  maid  went  on  her  errand.  A  few  moments 
later  a  callow  youth  of  seventeen,  who  appeared  to 
find  his  new  environment  somewhat  overpowering, 
was'  impelled,  rather  than  shown,  into  the  room. 
The  door  was  closed  behind  him,  and  he  stood  just 
within  it,  twisting  his  cap  in  his  hands. 

James  interviewed  him  while  he  cracked  his  nuts. 
"That  you,  Chambers?"  he  said.  He  was  sitting 
with  his  back  to  the  door. 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  Chambers. 

"Come  further  in;  I  can't  hear  you." 

The  youth  raised  his  eyes  and  took  a  hasty  glance 
at  his  surroundings.  The  glance  comprehended  lit- 
tle beyond  Marion's  white  neck  and  shoulders,  seen 
across  a  vivid  array  of  fruit  and  flowers;  and  his 
step  forward  compressed  itself  within  the  most 
modest  of  limits. 

"Had  a  pleasant  afternoon?"  proceeded  James. 

"Not  over  and  above,  sir,"  replied  Chambers, 
truthfully. 

"Did  you  deliver  the  parcel?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  what  happened?" 

"I  waited  about  best  part  o'  the  afternoon,  sir," 
103 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

"Cold,  was  it?'* 

"A  bit  nippy,"  said  Chambers. 

"Did  you  see  anything  more  of  the  parcel?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  boy;  "there  was  a  young  man 
come  out  of  the  office,  about  tea-time,  carrying 
of  it." 

"Sure  it  was  the  same  one?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"What  did  he  do?" 

"He  called  a  cab  and  got  in." 

"Oh!"  This  was  an  eventuality  which  James 
hadn't  thought  of.  "And  what  did  you  do?" 

"I  went  after  him,  sir." 

"On  foot?"   . 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Why  didn't  you  take  a  cab?" 

"Hadn't  got  no  money,  sir." 

"A  sound  reason,"  pronounced  James.  He 
poured  out  his  first  half-glass  of  Burgundy.  "Get 
on,  my  boy.  I  want  to  know  where  you  went." 

"We  turned  down  Oxford  Street,"  said  Cham- 
bers. "It  was  middlin'  full,  so  they  didn't  get  on 
so  fast  but  what  I  could  keep  up  with  'em.  We 
went  about  'arf  a  mile,  and  then  we  turned  to  the 

104 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

left  through  a  lot  o'  little  streets.  I  had  to  be 
slippy  round  the  corners,  sir." 

"So  you  would,"  said  James. 

"And  the  reg'lar  runners,  sir,  wot  was  'anging 
about,  they  larfed  at  me,  cos  there  wasn't  no 
luggage." 

"Very  impolite,"  said  James. 

"We  come  out  somewhere  near  'yde  Park 
Corner,"  proceeded  the  youth,  "and  I  followed  'em 
down  Knightsbridge,  and  then  they  turned  to  the 
left  again.  They  didn't  lose  no  time,  sir,  when 
they  was  clear  of  the  traffic,  and  I  was  pretty  near 
losing  sight  of  'em,  when  they  pulled  up  before  a 
great  red  'ouse." 

James  tasted  the  Burgundy  to  hide  his  satisfac- 
tion. "Yes,"  he  said;  "what  then?" 

"I  was  a  bit  blowed,  sir." 

"So  you  sat  on  a  step  to  get  your  breath  back?" 

"No,  sir,  it  was  agin  an  area  railing." 

"Bless  the  boy!"  exclaimed  James.  "Did  you 
take  the  address  of  the  house?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  cried  Chambers,  with  sudden  anima- 
tion, "like  wot  you  told  me,  sir." 

James  held  out  his  hand  for  the  slip  of  paper 
105 


MR   AND   MRS   FILLIERS 

which  the  youth  extracted  from  his  pocket.  He 
glanced  at  it  and  placed  it  beneath  his  plate. 

"Well,  Chambers,  have  you  got  a  young 
woman  ?" 

Chambers  sheepishly  admitted  the  fact  "Down 
Brixton  way,  sir,"  he  added,  as  if  the  neighbour- 
hood brought  some  extenuation. 

"You've  no  right  to,  at  your  age."  He  threw 
him  a  sovereign.  "Take  her  into  the  country  to- 
morrow and  tell  her  she's  a  young  fool,  like  your- 
self. That'll  do,  my  boy,  that'll  do!"  He  held  up 
his  hand  as  the  youth  was  beginning  to  stammer  his 
thanks.  "Close  the  door  behind  you." 

Before  he  could  obey  this  injunction,  however, 
Marion  had  risen,  had  snatched  a  pile  of  fruit  from 
the  table  and  poured  it  into  his  arms.  "Take 
these,"  she  said,  beaming  with  smiles,  "take  them 
home  with  you.  They  will  give  you  your  supper 
downstairs.  And  if  ever  you  should  happen  to  be 
in  trouble,  come  and  tell  me." 

Never  had  Chambers  been  so  near  so  fine  a  lady, 
never  had  he  known  one  so  gracious.  The  per- 
fume of  her  presence  intoxicated  him,  the  sweetness 
of  her  smile  completely  scattered  whatever  rem- 
nants of  self-possession  he  still  retained.  Marion 

106 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

opened  the  door  for  him,  gently  checked  the  stut- 
tering phrases  that  were  rising  to  his  lips,  and  left 
him  to  descend  to  the  basement  in  a  daze  of  happi- 
ness, from  which,  it  is  to  be  feared,  he  emerged 
with  a  very  serious  rival  to  the  Brixton  young  lady 
installed  in  his  heart. 

Marion  came  quickly  back,  her  sweet  face 
flushed  and  smiling,  and  seated  herself  unceremo- 
niously on  her  husband's  knee. 

"Oh!"  said  James. 

She  administered  a  smart  tap  to  his  cheek.  "I'm 
not  so  heavy  as  that,"  she  said. 

James  was  bubbling  with  self-satisfaction.  "My 
dear,  I'm  inclined  to  think  I've  missed  my  voca- 
tion ;  I  ought  to  have  gone  into  the  private  inquiry 
business." 

"Or  the  boy  should,"  said  Marion.  "You  made 
a  mistake  in  not  remembering  he  might  want  money 
for  a  cab." 

"So  I  did,"  said  James,  truthfully.  "It  might 
have  been  awkward."  His  face  fell.  The  success 
of  his  scheme  had  pleased  him,  as  such  little  things 
have  a  way  of  pleasing,  for  their  wheedling  sug- 
gestion of  qualities  to  our  credit  other  than  those 
we  have  grown  accustomed  to  the  possession  of. 

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MR  AND  MRS   VILL1ERS 

Marion  felt  a  gush  of  compunction  for  her  rather 
ruthless  demolishment  of  the  little  card-house  he 
had  been  tentatively  building,  and  as  some  com- 
pensation she  dropped  her  soft  cheek  on  his  shoul- 
der. The  minutes  passed  while  it  rested  there. 
James  was  not  a  man  who  wore  his  heart  on  his 
sleeve,  but  this  sort  of  thing  was  secretly  exceed- 
ingly pleasant  to  him.  Probably  he  didn't  quite 
realise  how  completely  his  life  was  filled  by  this 
one  woman,  how  infinite  would  be  the  vacuum  were 
she  withdrawn  from  it. 

Presently  he  raised  his  hand  and  gently  smoothed 
her  hair.  The  intimate  position  was  gradually  pro- 
ducing in  him  a  very  conscious  heart-hunger  for 
some  soft  avowal.  But  he  was  a  bad  fisher;  and 
it  was  with  considerable  shamefacedness  that  he 
finally  dropped  his  line : 

"So  you  are  not  quite  tired  of  your  fat  old  hus- 
band?" 

"You  are  not  fat,"  said  Marion,  valiantly, 
lifting  her  head. 

"You  still  love  him  a  bit?" 

The  white  arms  went  round  his  neck.  "Ever  so 
much,"  said  Marion. 


108 


CHAPTER  XI 

"She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet; 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread, 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed  ; 
My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead ; 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet, 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red." 

THERE  was  no  slipshod  slurring  of  the  lines,  no 
lifeless  incapacity  to  feel  them.  Every  syllable 
told,  every  word  rang  with  the  full  force  of  the 
poet's  meaning  in  Rosamond's  clear  soprano.  The 
last  notes  hung  in  the  air,  vibrating,  when  she 
ceased. 

"How  that  man  must  have  felt  those  lines  when 
he  wrote  them !"  said  Norman. 

Rosamond  closed  the  piano.  "He  knew  it,"  she 
said. 

"Lord,  yes!"  said  Norman. 

She  crossed  the  room  and  sat  down  beside  him, 
then  slipped  her  hand  into  his.  "So  do  we.  Nor- 
man," she  said,  softly. 

109 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

Norman  did  not  answer  immediately.  His  ears 
were  still  filled  with  the  song,  and  his  mind  was 
wandering  along  a  train  of  thought  induced  by  it. 
"I  wonder?"  he  said,  at  last. 

Rosamond  looked  up,  a  little  startled.  "Why?" 
she  said.  "Why  do  you  wonder?" 

"Have  we  ever  quite  got  there?"  said  Norman, 
slowly. 

She  snuggled  closely  in  to  him,  as  if  to  shelter 
herself  from  even  the  suggestion  of  a  doubt  on  the 
subject.  "Oh,  yes,"  she  said,  "yes." 

Norman  gave  a  little  dry  laugh.  He  was  still 
following  his  own  thoughts.  "Of  course,  the  mere 
fact  that  one  questions,"  he  said,  "is  an  answer  in 
the  negative."  He  put  his  arm  caressingly  round 
her.  "We  love  one  another  very  dearly,  sweet- 
heart; we  couldn't  get  along  without  one  another; 
but  it  isn't  quite" — he  waved  his  hand  towards  the 
piano — "that." 

Rosamond  was  silent  for  a  few  moments.  Then 
suddenly,  with  a  ripple  of  laughter,  she  stretched  her 
beautiful  form  across  him  and  took  his  head  be- 
tween her  hands.  Her  smiling  lips  were  very  close 
to  his.  "Oh,  very  well,  dear  old  boy,  since  you 
have  it  so,  perhaps  it  isn't  quite — that.  But 
110 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

it's  something  very  much  like  it,  so  much  like  it 
that  I  never  want  anything  else." 

"Really,  Rosamond?"  said  Norman.   "Really?" 

"Really  and  really."  The  dark  eyes  looked  at 
him  with  bewitching  gravity  as  she  repeated  the 
words  with  emphasis.  Then  she  drew  his  face  to 
her  own  and  kissed  him,  lingeringly,  on  the  lips. 

It  was  early  afternoon,  and  they  were  sitting  in 
Rosamond's  room.  Villiers  had  come  across  after 
lunch,  a  thing  he  had  done,  notwithstanding  the 
first  evening's  prohibition,  every  day  since  his  ar- 
rival. Besides  that,  he  had  spent  three  whole 
evenings,  out  of  seven,  in  Rosamond's  society,  so 
that  the  original  intention  to  live  upon  terms  of  in- 
frequent association  seemed,  up  to  the  present,  only 
distantly  likely  to  be  fulfilled.  To-day,  however, 
Villiers  felt  an  inclination  to  write.  He  attempted 
to  rise  from  the  corner  of  the  couch  where  Rosa- 
mond had  imprisoned  him. 

"Let  me  go,  dear,"  he  said,  "I  must  get  back 
to  work." 

"Bother  work!"  said  Rosamond.  She  didn't 
move  an  inch.  "You're  always  working." 

"My  dear  little  girl,  do  you  know  how  much  I've 
done  since  I've  been  here?  Ten  sheets.  Think  of 

111 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

it.    Perhaps  fifteen  hundred  words.  What  a  record 
for  a  week's  work  of  a  full-grown  man !" 

"What  does  it  matter?  You've  been  turning 
out  books  for  the  last  four  years  as  hard  as  you  can. 
Is  there  to  be  no  respite?  From  the  bottom  of  a 
page  to  the  top  of  another.  Is  there  to  be  no  end 
to  it — ever?" 

"Not  now,  at  all  events,"  said  Norman.  "Up  to 
the  present  I  have  been  writing  from  inclination— 
at  any  rate,  not  entirely  from  necessity.  But  now 
it  will  take  the  whole  of  my  private  means,  and 
the  royalties  from  my  previous  books,  to  pay  the 
allowance  I  am  going  to  make  Marjorie.  So  I 
shall  have  to  buckle-to,  you  see,  Rosamond,"  he 
concluded,  smiling,  "unless  I  want  to  starve." 

"You  won't  do  that,"  said  she.  "Your  name  is 
a  continual  feast.  Any  rotten  little  tales  you  like 
to  write  will  be  accepted  by  the  magazines  and  well 
paid  for." 

"Yes,  it  is  easy  to  prostitute  one's  name  in  that 
way,"  said  Norman,  "until  it  isn't  worth  the  paper 
it's  written  on." 

"Dearest,  I  do  so  want  you  to  stay,"  said  Rosa- 
mond, softly,  returning  to  the  attack.  "I've  noth- 
ing on  earth  to  do  until  five  o'clock,  when  I  have 

112 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

to  go  and  look  at  the  dresses  at  Lady  Clifford's  'At 
Home.'  I've  been  counting  on  it — got  all  my  stuff 
done;  all  the  week  I've  meant  to  have  this  after- 
noon— for  you." 

But  Norman  still  made  a  struggle.  "Don't  look 
at  me  like  that,"  he  said.  "I  can't  resist  it. 
Heaven  knows,  I  want  to  stay.  And  I  really 
mustn't.  I  can  never  do  any  decent  work  unless 
I'm  wound  up  to  it,  and  just  at  present  I  feel  in 
the  vein.  I  oughtn't  to  miss  the  chance.  At  least 
half  a  dozen  pages  are  rioting  in  my  head  at  this 
moment,  clamouring  to  be  written.  If  I  stay  with 
you  now,  they'll  sink  into  the  limbo — hopelessly, 
irretrievably." 

"Poor  little  pages!"  said  Rosamond.  "You 
make  me  feel  quite  pathetic.  Let  us  erect  a  monu- 
ment to  them  in  kisses  and  champagne — the  little 
pages  that  never  were  written.  Doesn't  it  make 
you  feel  sad?" 

"Rosamond,  you  are  almost  cruel." 

"Oh,  no,"  she  said,  softly,  "you  know  that  isn't 
true."  She  was  smoothing  his  cheeks  between  her 
hands.  "But  I  foresee  that  this  work  is  going  to 
be  a  serious  rival,  and  I  must  have  a  clear  under- 
standing with  it.  I  don't  grudge  it  so  many  hours 

113 


MR  AND  MRS   riLLIERS 

a  day — five,  six,  seven,  I  won't  be  stingy;  but  I 
won't  let  it  make  any  arbitrary  rules  as  to  which 
those  hours  are  to  be,  and  I  won't  allow  it  to  cross 
my  threshold  and  flaunt  itself  in  my  face,  as  it  is 
doing  now."  She  waved  her  hand  across  his  eyes. 
"I  never  let  my  work  cast  its  shadow  before,  as  you 
do,"  she  proceeded;  "I  don't  worry  about  it,  in  and 
out  of  season;  I  just  sit  down  when  it  happens  to 
be  convenient,  and  get  it  done  with.  I  write  when 
/  like,  not  when  it  likes." 

Norman  didn't  answer  at  once.  He  hadn't  been 
listening  to  her  very  closely.  He  came  back  slowly 
from  a  tentative  excursion  into  the  realms  of  his 
imagination.  "I  couldn't  write  like  that,  dear," 
he  said,  then.  "Probably  it  wouldn't  be  worth 
reading,  if  I  could." 

Rosamond  burst  into  a  delighted  peal  of 
laughter.  "Of  all  the  abominably  tactless,  hope- 
less, idiotic  things  to  sayl"  she  cried.  "You  can't 
refuse  to  stay  now.  It  will  take  you  at  least  the  rest 
of  the  afternoon  to  make  your  peace."  She 
leaned  heavily  upon  him.  He  could  feel  the  beat 
of  her  heart  through  the  warm  bosom  which 
caressed  him  with  its  weight.  Her  luminous  eyes 

114 


wore  a  look  infinitely  appealing.  "Stay,"  she 
breathed. 

"Of  course  I  shall  stay,"  cried  Norman,  almost 
impatiently.  "No  man  of  flesh  and  blood — or 
stone,  or  iron,  or  ice,  for  that  matter — could  do 
anything  else  when  you  ask  like  that.  Of  course  I 
shall  stay.  I  believe  if  an  angel  from  heaven  came 
down — supposing  they  make  them  masculine — he 
would  stay,  if  you  asked  in  that  way." 

Rosamond  sprang  up  with  a  cry  of  delight,  like 
a  happy  child,  as  pleased  by  the  tribute  to  her 
charms  as  with  the  success  of  her  appeal.  "Then 
don't  dare  to  run  away  while  I  change  my  gown," 
she  exclaimed.  "I  won't  be  long." 

Why  a  woman  must  necessarily  change  her  dress 
after  lunch  is  one  of  those  things  which  to  a  mere 
man  can  never  be  satisfactorily  demonstrated. 

She  betook  herself  into  the  adjoining  room, 
leaving  open  the  communicating  door,  so  that  she 
could  shout  intermittent  observations  through  the 
aperture.  Norman  had  occasional  glimpses  of  her 
as  she  crossed  the  field  of  his  vision,  framed  by 
the  doorway,  in  various  stages  of  deshabille.  He 
hardly  noticed  her.  Little  things  were  beginning 
to  knock  at  the  door  of  his  private  tabernacle 

115 


MR  AND   MRS   FILLIERS 

somewhat  sharply.  He  had  never  attempted  to  de- 
ceive either  himself  or  others  with  the  idea  that  he 
had  been  endowed  with  any  especial  capacity  for 
personal  rectitude.  He  found  himself  with  a  some- 
what exceptional  constitution  to  deal  with,  but 
hitherto  he  had  contrived  to  preserve  his  self- 
respect;  he  had  done  nothing  to  carry  him  below 
his  own  standard  of  the  behaviour  demanded  of 
him.  Even  his  treatment  of  his  wife  appeared  to 
him  to  be  justified  by  the  particular  circumstances 
which  had  brought  it  about.  Now  he  perceived  a 
difference.  The  stimulus  to  work  was  still  upon 
him.  He  felt  the  call  of  the  fair  white  sheets, 
waiting  for  him  in  his  room  across  the  landing,  as 
he  had  not  felt  it  since  the  momentous  step  had  been 
taken  which  brought  him  to  Albany  Mansions.  He 
knew  that  this  afternoon,  whose  hours  were  to  be 
dedicated  to  the  worship  of  that  exacting  goddess 
whose  claims  are  never  satisfied,  could  have  pro- 
duced the  best  that  was  in  him.  And  he  began  to 
realise,  dimly  as  yet,  whither  he  was  sinking. 

"The  cigarettes  are  in  the  little  cabinet  under  the 
window,"  Rosamond  called  out. 

Villiers  got  up.  He  shook  himself  free  of  his 
thoughts,  almost  physically,  as  a  dog  shakes  water 

116 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

from  its  back.  Having  given  the  go-by  to  his  con- 
science, he  undertook  to  do  it  handsomely. 

"And  if  you  want  some  champagne,"  shouted 
Rosamond  again,  dragging  pins  from  her  hair  and 
digging  them  in  again,  "there's  a  bottle  or  two 
somewhere.  Hunt  about  for  it." 

Norman  lighted  a  cigarette  and  proceeded  to 
move  leisurely  about  the  room.  The  course  of  his 
perambulations  brought  him  to  Rosamond's  Shera- 
ton bureau,  which  was  lying  open,  littered  with 
papers.  He  picked  up  a  long  sheet  of  proof  and 
glanced  at  it  casually.  Something  held  his  atten- 
tion and  he  read  on,  his  whole  face  gradually  as- 
suming an  expression  of  comic  perplexity. 

He  was  so  employed  when  Rosamond,  smiling 
and  radiant,  came  back  into  the  room,  humming 
the  refrain  of  a  ballad.  She  was  now  attired  in  a 
loose  crepe-de-chine  tea-gown  of  palest  grey.  And 
it  was  easy  to  see  that  she  had  disencumbered  her- 
self of  those  conventional  barbarities,  corsets. 

"Why  do  you  write  in  this  wonderful  way, 
Rosamond?"  said  Norman,  without  looking  up, 
and  with  a  gleam  of  unmistakable  enjoyment  some- 
where in  the  recesses  of  his  eyes. 

Rosamond  resented  this  calm  investigation  of 
117 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

her  private  papers  much  less  than  the  quite  inci- 
dental fact,  resulting  from  it,  that  her  undeniably 
exquisite  aspect  in  the  grey  gown  had  for  the  mo- 
ment passed  without  notice.  "Put  down  that 
paper,"  she  commanded.  She  made  a  snatch  at 
the  slip. 

Norman  held  it  out  of  her  reach,  laughing.  "I 
suppose  you  really  do  understand  the  meaning  of 
words?" — with  chaffing  semi-diffidence. 

"Put  it  down,"  cried  Rosamond,  again;  but  she 
was  smiling. 

"I  mean,"  continued  Norman,  ruthlessly,  "you 
realise  that  a  dress  which  is  made  of  substantial 
quantities  of  muslin,  lace,  silk-brocade  and  other 
odds  and  ends  isn't  exactly  'created,'  and  cannot, 
without  considerable  torture,  even  be  said  to  be 
'expressed'?  And  it's  rather  an  original  notion, 
isn't  it,  to  talk  of  a  blouse  as  a  'theme'?"  He 
threw  down  the  slip.  "What  language  is  it, 
sweetheart?  It  isn't  English — not  even  jour- 
nalese." 

"Modistese,"  said  Rosamond,  with  a  laugh,  "I 
suppose.  I  have  to  do  it.  The  shops  like  it." 

"What  of  that?  You've  nothing  to  do  with  the 
shops." 

118 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

"Oh,  haven't  I?  If  you  compare  my  puffs  with 
the  advertisement  pages,  you  may  come  to  a  differ- 
ent conclusion." 

"Is  there  anything  honest  in  the  world?"  said 
Norman,  sententiously. 

"Most  noble  Caesar,  are  your  books  honest?" 

Norman  climbed  down  leisurely.  "No,"  he 
admitted,  when  he  reached  the  bottom,  "not  quite." 

"You  daren't  make  them  honest.  You  have  to 
write  what  the  public  is  willing  to  read." 

"Not  quite  that,"  said  Norman,  "rather  what  a 
noisy  section  of  the  public  is  willing  to  let  the  rest 
read." 

"It  comes  to  the  same  thing.  We  all  have  to 
cut  our  coat  to  the  cloth  in  the  end.  But  some  of 
us  are  rather  superior  sometimes."  She  smiled  at 
him  with  a  delicious  suggestion  of  triumph,  and 
gave  him  a  playful  flick  with  her  hand.  "Is  the 
door  fastened?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Norman. 

Rosamond  seated  herself  in  a  corner  of  the 
couch.  "And  have  you  turned  the  card  to  'Out'?" 

Norman  had  done  that  also. 

"Then  pass  the  cigarettes,  and  let  us  enjoy  our- 
selves." 

119 


MR  AND   MRS   VILLIERS 

Norman  obeyed  the  injunction,  and  then  lighted 
another  himself.  He  took  the  opposite  corner  of 
the  couch,  and  Rosamond  immediately  availed  her- 
self of  the  fact  to  place  her  dainty  feet  upon  his 
lap.  The  novelist  dutifully  slipped  his  fingers 
through  the  open  front  of  one  of  the  pointed  shoes 
and  lightly  stroked  the  top  of  her  instep.  It  was 
a  form  of  homage  which  Rosamond  found  particu- 
larly soothing. 

"If  you  get  tired  of  doing  that  one,  Norman," 
she  said,  sweetly,  dropping  her  head  on  the  cushion 
and  blowing  a  cloud  of  smoke  into  the  air,  "you 
can  do  the  other." 

Two  hours  later,  as  Rosamond  was  descending 
the  stairs  on  her  way  to  Lady  Clifford's  "At 
Home,"  she  met  a  pleasant-featured  gentleman  of 
comfortable  build  coming  up,  who  was  apparently 
finding  the  steep  ascent  by  no  means  to  his  taste. 
She  gave  him  a  glance  as  she  passed,  and  he  gave 
her  two.  But  that  was  not  an  exceptional  experi- 
ence with  Rosamond. 


120 


CHAPTER  XII 

VILLIERS  returned  to  his  room  feeling  much  as  a 
dog  may  be  assumed  to  feel  when  it  creeps  back  to 
its  kennel  after  a  night's  foraging;  and  the  knowl- 
edge that  such  was  his  mental  attitude — a  knowl- 
edge impressed  upon  him  in  especially  uncompro- 
mising terms  when  he  opened  his  door  and  saw  the 
orderly  preparation  for  work — increased  its  acute- 
ness.  There  was  an  atmosphere,  a  perfume  in 
Rosamond's  room,  which  to  some  extent  drugged 
his  moral  sense  and  restrained  his  conscience  from 
obtruding  comments  too  flagrantly  crude.  But  in 
the  appearance  of  his  own  possessions,  the  evi- 
dences of  his  individuality  and  his  work — the  half- 
dozen  written  pages  (the  ink  long  dry)  spread 
upon  his  table,  the  little  pad  of  fresh  sheets  care- 
fully cut  and  margined  to  the  left  of  his  blotting- 
pad,  the  heavy  books  of  reference  crowding  the 
shelves  and  overflowing  upon  the  floor  (from 
amongst  which,  it  might  be  observed,  James's 


MR  AND  MRS   VILL1ERS 

three  sporting  novels  detached  themselves,  with  al- 
most plaintive  insistence,  like  notes  of  interroga- 
tion)— in  all  this  there  was  nothing  to  cast  a  sooth- 
ing gloss  upon  realities,  and  to  hide  him  from  the 
white,  penetrating  rays  of  his  self-despite. 

He  could  not  work.  That  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. The  spell  of  the  soft  goddess  was  too  near 
him;  the  purple  glamour  of  her  rites  still  flushed 
his  brain  with  too  giddy  an  actuality.  He  went  to 
the  windows  and  threw  them  wide  open.  The 
room  was  not  close",  but  he  felt  the  need  of  air. 
Out  into  the  raw  November  atmosphere  he  thrust 
head  and  shoulders.  Where  was  he  drifting?  If 
these  wasted  hours  were  to  be  taken  as  a  sample  of 
what  was  likely  to  happen  in  the  future — and  he 
conceived  little  prospect  of  anything  else  if  Rosa- 
mond's influence  continued  to  be  exercised  as  it  had 
been  that  afternoon — to  what  length  of  time  could 
he  look  forward  before  self-respect  became  a  thing 
of  the  past  and  sound  work  an  impossibility?  He 
saw  his  talents  made  increasingly  subservient  to 
her  humours,  himself  a  mere  plaything  to  minister 
to  her  whims,  as  and  when  the  fancy  took  her.  And 
against  that  destiny  the  whole  moral  nature  of  the 
man  rebelled  passionately — rebelled  while  recog- 

188 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

nising  the  galling  and  humiliating  truth  that  it  was 
linked  to  a  physical  weakness  which  could  make 
such  rebellion  impotent. 

Against  Rosamond  herself  he  launched  no  unjust 
reproaches.  Individuals  calling  themselves  men, 
at  moments  of  their  lives  corresponding  with  that 
which  Norman  was  passing  through,  are  sometimes 
guilty  of  reproach  of  that  kind.  For  such  miserable 
cowardliness  there  is  no  word  in  the  English  lan- 
guage sufficiently  contemptuous.  Norman  knew 
that  his  enemy  was  not  Rosamond,  but  was  chained 
up  within  himself,  and  would  accompany  him  wher- 
ever he  chose  to  go;  that  he  had  himself  only  to 
reckon  with,  and  that  the  future  course  of  his  life, 
in  all  probability,  lay  in  the  issue  of  that  struggle. 

Presently  he  drew  in  his  head  and  closed  the 
casement.  The  sun  had  already  sunk  out  of  the 
cold  sky,  leaving  but  a  faint  yellow  afterglow, 
veiled  to  Norman  by  the  smoke  hanging  heavily 
over  intervening  chimney-pots.  The  room  had 
dusked  since  he  turned  away,  so  he  switched  on 
the  electric  light.  He  noticed,  as  he  did  so,  that 
someone  was  shuffling  in  the  lobby  and  fumbling 
for  the  handle  of  the  door.  Thinking  it  was  the 

123 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

maid  with  tea,  he  pulled  it  open,  and  confronted 
James,  blinking  at  him. 

"That  you,  Norman?"  said  he,  cheerily.  "Glad 
I  haven't  climbed  those  steps  for  nothing.  But 
what  a  cave  of  the  winds  you  live  in,  man!  Shut 
some  of  those  windows.  Look  at  your  fire,  it's 
smoking  atrociously." 

Norman  scrutinised  the  genial  figure  of  his 
brother-in-law  with  considerable  displeasure. 

"How  have  you  got  here?"  he  said.  "I  left  no 
address."  Then  suddenly  a  light  broke  upon  him, 
and  his  features  relaxed  into  a  partly  contemptuous 
smile.  "I  see;  this  explains  those  ridiculous 
books?" 

"Perfectly  true,"  said  James,  blandly.  "They 
are  books  I  value,  I  assure  you,  but,  rather  than 
that  you  should  feel  any  grievance  on  the  subject, 
I'll  treat  you  squarely  and  make  you  a  present  of 
them."  He  strode  into  the  room  and  proceeded 
calmly  to  remove  his  overcoat,  which  he  afterwards 
placed  upon  a  chair,  together  with  his  hat  and  um- 
brella. Then  he  selected  another,  of  comfortable 
aspect,  and  seated  himself  in  it  with  a  shiver. 
"The  windows,  Norman ;  do  look  to  the  windows." 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

Villiers  closed  the  remaining  casements  and  drew 
the  curtains  over  them. 

"After  all,"  he  said,  "I  suppose  some  such  in- 
terview as  this  was  inevitable  in  the  long  run,  and 
it  may  be  as  well  to  get  it  over.  Though,  for  my 
part,"  he  added,  crossing  the  room  and  breaking 
the  recalcitrant  fire  into  a  blaze,  "for  my  part,  I 
fail  to  see  how  it  is  going  to  be  profitable  to  anyone 
concerned." 

"We  will  talk  of  that  in  a  moment,"  said  James. 
He  was  dragging  at  his  collar  and  giving  vent  to 
a  series  of  guttural  sounds  indicative  of  some 
laryngeal  discomfort.  "This  sulphur  has  got  into 
my  throat,"  was  the  explanation  he  volunteered. 
"Have  you  such  a  thing  as  a  whisky-and-soda  ?" 

Norman  smiled.  It  was  impossible  to  remain 
long  in  James's  society  without  being  infected  by 
his  innate  good-humour.  "Yes,  I  think  I  can  do 
that  for  you,"  said  he.  He  produced  a  decanter 
and  a  syphon  from  a  cupboard,  and  placed  them, 
together  with  a  tumbler,  in  convenient  proximity 
to  his  visitor's  elbow. 

The  latter  helped  himself.  "Same  old  brand!" 
said  he  with  a  wry  face,  when  he  tasted  it;  "no 

125 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

wrinkles  on  it.     You  should  pack  it  away  for  ten 
years,  Norman,  and  then  ask  me  to  sample  it." 

Norman  laughed  outright  at  that.  He  sat  down, 
facing  his  relative  across  a  corner  of  the  table. 

"You  are  one  of  the  most  wonderful  men  I 
know,  James,"  said  he.  "You  come  here,  pre- 
sumably, to  say  a  number  of  unpleasant  things,  and 
you  start  by  making  yourself  comfortable  with  a 
whisky-and-soda ;  or,  at  least,  as  comfortable  as  the 
inferior  quality  of  the  whisky  will  permit." 

"Which  proves,  I  hope,"  said  James,  quietly, 
"that  I  haven't  the  least  intention  to  say  anything 
unpleasant."  He  replaced  his  glass  on  the  table. 
"I  have  come  simply  to  ask  you  to  return  to  your 
wife,  Norman.  You  have  made  the  little  thing 
very  unhappy." 

"That  does  credit  to  your  heart,"  said  Norman. 
"Of  course  you  don't  seriously  suppose  that  I  have 
deliberately  taken  a  step  of  this  nature  to  go  back 
upon  it  within  a  fortnight?" 

"I  suppose  nothing,"  said  James.  "I  only  ask 
you  to  look  at  the  matter  from  the  point  of  view  of 
that  poor  girl." 

"Heavens  knows  I  have  done  that,"  said  Nor- 
man, earnestly.  "If  she  suffers,  it  is  because  she 

126 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

placed  me  on  a  pedestal  which  time  will  make  clear 
to  her  I  had  no  right  to  occupy.  She,  too,  will 
realise  before  long  the  madness  of  such  a  union  as 
ours." 

"Nothing  mad  about  it,"  said  James.  "I  never 
knew  a  couple  better  suited  to  one  another." 

"As  to  that,"  replied  Norman,  quietly,  "I  think 
I  can  claim  to  be  in  the  better  position  to  judge." 

"I  know  what  you  have  in  your  mind,"  said 
James;  "to  my  thinking,  an  absurdly  insufficient 
reason." 

"Insufficient!"  He  repeated  the  word  with 
amazed  emphasis.  "Insufficient !  I  leave  my  wife 
because  I  find  her  deficient  in  the  first  essential  of 
marriage,  in  all  that  makes  marriage,  is  marriage, 
in  the  one  supreme  function  for  which  marriage 
was  ordained;  and  you  call  that  an  insufficient 
reason?" 

James  took  another  pull  at  the  whisky.  "Don't 
overstate  it,"  he  said;  "one  of  the  functions." 

"What  are  the  others?  In  what  else  does  the 
married  state  differ  from  the  single  state?" 

"We  marry  for  companionship,"  said  James, 
"for  sympathy." 

127 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

"Obtainable  at  a  more  moderate  quotation  than 
indissoluble  union.  What  else?" 

James  had  not  expected  to  be  cross-examined. 
It  had  never  occurred  to  him  to  dissect  the  causes 
of  his  own  connubial  content.  Now  that  he  was 
invited  to  do  so,  he  was  perhaps  for  the  first  time 
dimly  aware  of  the  essential  base  upon  which  the 
whole  edifice  was  erected;  but  this  was  clearly  not 
the  time  to  lay  emphasis  upon  that  perception.  He 
faithfully  recounted  the  lighter  boons  which  flowed 
to  him  from  the  estate  of  marriage. 

"You  want  someone,"  he  said,  "to  nurse  you 
when  you're  sick,  to  look  pretty  at  the  head  of  your 
table  when  you  have  your  friends  to  dine,  and  to 
write  your  private  letters." 

Norman  smiled,  a  smile  with  the  faintest  tinge 
of  sadness  in  it.  "You  are  very  well  suited,  James," 
he  said. 

"I  am,"  said  James,  loyally.  "Besides  that,  you 
want  someone  to  look  after  your  house  and  to 
manage  your  servants." 

"Yes.  You  can  hire  a  housekeeper  to  do  all 
that;  they're  not  expensive." 

"If  it  comes  to  that,  you  can — "  He  thought 
better  of  it  and  stopped. 

128 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

"I'm  glad  you  didn't  say  it,"  said  Norman. 

"All  the  same,"  said  James,  "it's  a  fair  argument 
on  the  line  you  are  following." 

"Is  it?"  said  Norman.  "It  may  be  fair,  but  it's 
not  an  argument.  It's  a  platitude  to  say  that  the 
woman  who  can  be  bought  isn't  worth  having;  it 
is  almost  as  true  to  say  that  the  man  who  would 
buy  her  isn't  worth  hanging." 

"That's  the  sort  of  remark  I  should  have  ex- 
pected you  to  make — a  month  ago,"  said  James. 
"I'm  willing  to  confess  that  this  affair  runs  con- 
trary to  all  my  preconceived  ideas  about  you,  Nor- 
man. I've  always  looked  upon  you  as  one  of  the 
steadiest  men  I  know.  You  don't  drink — " 

"I'm  not  a  teetotaller,"  said  Norman,  "by  any 
means." 

"You  don't  show  an  intelligent  interest  in  the 
subject,"  said  James,  flatly.  "You  don't  bet,  never 
let  your  tongue  run  away  with  you,  never  tell  shady 
stories,  never  gamble  at  cards — " 

"I  don't  actively  object,"  said  Norman,  "if  the 
game's  bad  enough  It's  the  very  worst  reflection 
on  the  quality  of  a  game,  reduces  it  at  once  to  the 
level  of  pitch-and-toss." 

"You've  never  been  loose  or  wild,"  added 
129 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

James;  "behaved  like  a  model  citizen  all  your  life 
up  to  now.  If  anyone  had  asked  me,  I  should  have 
said  a  man  without  vices.  And  yet  you  suddenly 
bolt  in  front  of  the  guns  like  an  old  retriever  that 
no  one  ever  thought  of  holding!" 

He  emptied  his  glass,  and  then  expounded  the 
simile:  "Show  yourself  incapable  of  grasping  the 
most  elementary  of  moral  obligations." 

"Do  you  regard  it  as  a  moral  obligation  to  live 
with  a  wife  who  has  no  wish  for  a  husband?" 

"She  has  a  wish,"  said  James,  "a  very  decided 
one." 

"For  a  companion,"  corrected  Norman.  "The 
only  obligation  I  can  see  is  to  provide  her  with  a 
home,  or  with  the  means  to  secure  one.  That  1 
am  continuing  to  do." 

"You  can  talk  around  the  point  as  much  as  you 
like,"  said  James,  "it  doesn't  alter  the  fact,  to  me, 
that  it's  the  plain  duty  of  a  man  to  live  with  the 
woman  he  has  married." 

"And  if,  as  in  my  case,  the  wife  is  no  wife?" 

"He  must  grin  and  bear  it,"  said  James,  without 
hesitation. 

"Probably  that  is  what  I  should  have  done," 
said  Norman,  "had  Providence  seen  fit  to  provide 

130 


MR  AND   MRS   FILLIERS 

me  with  your  physical  system  instead  of  my  own. 
Like  most  Englishmen,  you  have  the  luck  to  possess 
a  moderate  temperament,  otherwise  you  couldn't 
talk  as  you  do." 

"Very  likely,"  said  James. 

Norman  leaned  his  arms  on  the  table  and  looked 
steadily  across  at  his  brother-in-law.  "Do  you 
know  that  that  is  an  inestimable  blessing,  which 
you  should  fall  down  on  your  knees  and  thank 
God  for  every  day  of  your  life?" 

"My  dear  Norman !"  said  James. 

"It  leads  you  to  reach  a  good  many  false  con- 
clusions. You  are  an  excellent  type  of  a  class, 
James,"  Norman  proceeded,  "a  numerous  class 
which  believes  that  all  difficulties  such  as  mine  are 
capable  of  solution  by  the  moral  stiffening  of  the 
human  race.  Never  was  a  greater  mistake.  They 
spring  from  immutable  natural  laws  and  not  from 
vice,  and  no  amount  of  educative  measures,  based 
on  systematic  violent  opposition  to  those  laws,  can 
have  the  smallest  chance  of  permanent  effect.  Look 
at  your  streets,  for  example." 

"My  streets!"  said  James,  mildly.  "I  wish 
they  were." 

"You  have  been  hammering  away  at  them," 
131 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

continued  Norman,  "with  very  laudable  persever- 
ance, for  the  last  two  or  three  generations,  without 
improving  them  in  the  slightest.  That  is  because 
you  decline  to  recognise  the  patent  truth  that  these 
things  have  to  be.  They  have  been  since  the  days 
of  Abraham,  and  unless  you  are  prepared  to  make 
a  revolutionary  change  in  your  social  system,  they 
will  continue  till  the  world's  end.  You  will  never 
make  any  progress  until  you  get  that  fundamental 
fact  driven  deep  into  your  stolid  heads." 

James  was  not  particularly  concerned.  It  can- 
not be  said  that  these  were  questions  to  which  he 
had  given  much  thought. 

"Oh!"  he  interjected, without  enthusiasm.  "Well, 
since  it  appears  to  please  you  to  abuse  my  head, 
I'll  allow  you  to  continue  to  abuse  my  stomach." 
He  stretched  out  his  hand  to  the  decanter. 

"I'm  going  to  have  some  tea,"  said  Norman. 
"Won't  you  wait  for  it?" 

James  helped  himself.  "My  dear  Norman," 
said  he,  with  pained  expostulation,  "the  whisky's 
not  so  bad  as  that." 


132 


CHAPTER  XIII 

NORMAN  rang  the  bell,  and  presently  tea  was 
brought  in  and  placed  upon  the  table.  He  poured 
cut  a  cup  and  stirred  the  sugar  in  it.  Then,  hav- 
ing munched  a  piece  of  buttered  toast,  he  took  up 
the  thread  of  his  remarks. 

"  'Raising  the  tone'  is  the  phrase,"  he  said. 
"That  is  to  be  the  panacea  for  all  unruly  affections. 
Well,  here  am  I,  a  man  who,  through  the  gradual 
developing  process  of  centuries,  has  come  out,  I 
suppose,  in  a  tolerably  advanced  state  of  moral  and 
intellectual  culture.  How  has  that  affected  me  in 
its  bearing  on  the  primitive  instincts?  It  has  made 
them  the  more  galling,  in  so  far  as  it  has  enabled 
me  to  recognise  their  baseness  in  relation  to  the 
qualities  of  the  mind,  and  it  has  increased  their 
severity  in  proportion  as  this  very  refinement  has 
obliged  their  resistance." 

"But  you  have  not  resisted  them,"  said  James. 

"I  resisted  them  until  a  month,  ago,  James.  But 
133 


MB  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

that  is  really  the  point  of  the  story.  Possibly  my 
case  is  exceptional,  possibly  I  have  reached  no  such 
delicacy  of  perception  as  I  suggested;  but  I  think 
you  will  find,  if  you  drive  it  hard  enough,  that  there 
must  come  a  time  when  this  moral  culture,  however 
highly  tempered,  can  do  no  more." 

He  spoke  very  quietly — even  with  a  little  sad- 
ness. Usually  his  manner  was  inclined  to  be  au- 
thoritative; now  his  fine  face  was  turned  upon 
James  with  an  expression  that  contained  almost  an 
appeal.  There  began,  slowly  and  indistinctly,  to 
grow  upon  the  latter  some  conception  of  the 
struggle  he  had  gone  through.  He  was  conscious 
of  a  faint  veering  of  his  point  of  view. 

"Don't  suppose  I  can't  feel  for  you,  Norman," 
he  said,  kindly.  "The  luck  has  been  against  you, 
I  admit;  you've  drawn  a  good  card,  but  it  doesn't 
happen  to  suit  your  hand.  But  that  doesn't  entitle 
you  to  throw  it  away  and  pick  up  another.  You 
must  play  the  game." 

"Yes,"  said  Norman,  rather  bitterly,  "the  long 
game.  You  are  well  up  in  the  rules.  They  are  all 
set  out  in  the  ethical  code  of  the  class  we  have  been 
speaking  of.  It  recognises,  grudgingly,  that  nature 
has  seen  fit  to  implant  in  her  children  certain  un- 

134. 


MR  AND   MRS   VILLIERS 

desirable  proclivities,  and  it  prescribes  marriage. 
It  airily  disregards  the  fact  that  marriage,  as  a  rule, 
is  out  of  the  question  until  a  full  decade  after  these 
proclivities  have  become  inconveniently  turbulent; 
but  that  is  beside  the  point.  It  tells  you  to  marry — 
to  make  your  one  pick — and  it  gives  you  certain 
sapient  advice.  It  says,  'It's  a  serious  business; 
look  carefully  at  the  backs  of  the  cards  (certainly 
they  are  much  alike)  ;  but  on  no  account  peep  at 
the  faces.'  And  then,  when  you've  drawn  your 
card,  and  find  it  the  wrong  one,  and  ask  blankly 
what  is  to  happen  next,  it  tells  you  to  'play  the 
game.'  It's  a  hard  game,  but  you  set  your  teeth 
and  begin  to  play  it.  And  later  on,  perhaps,  when 
some  other  cards  that  would  have  done  very  much 
better  happen  to  lie  exposed  on  the  table,  it  takes 
them  up  and  flaunts  them  in  your  face  and  says, 
'You  didn't  know  they  were  there;  /  took  care  of 
that;  you've  had  your  chance;  play  the  game.'  ' 

"I  fancy  I've  heard  something  like  that  before," 
said  James,  "from  people  who  didn't  like  the  look 
of  their  helping  of  fortune.  The  system  on  which 
the  affairs  of  the  world  are  conducted  mayn't  be 
the  best  for  everybody,  but  it  suits  the  majority, 
and  it  has  held  water  for  nineteen  hundred  years." 

135 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

"Yes,"  said  Norman;  "if  a  thing  has  proved  on 
the  whole  endurable,  it  will  have  to  do.  That  is 
the  philosophy.  A  trifle  slipshod,  perhaps,  but  it 
saves  trouble." 

James  was  wise  enough  not  to  continue  the  dis- 
cussion. He  knew  that,  in  arguing  with  a  man  who 
takes  an  extreme  view  upon  any  question,  you  run 
a  risk  of  spoiling  a  good  case  and  have  no  chance 
of  improving  a  bad  one.  It  has  never  occurred  to 
you  to  analyse  your  own  attitude  of  benevolent 
neutrality  towards  existing  conditions,  whereas 
you  are  dealing  with  an  opponent  who  has 
made  a  study  of  his  subject  and  has  all  the  points 
at  his  finger  ends. 

"I'm  not  going  to  argue  about  it,"  he  said,  "I 
didn't  come  here  for  that.  Whether  the  system  is 
right  or  wrong,  you've  got  to  face  it;  and  so  has 
she,  poor  thing.  And  however  I  may  feel  for  you, 
I  feel  a  hundred  times  more  for  her.  I've  just  left 
her,  remember— or,  rather,  I  left  her  this  morn- 
ing when  I  went  to  the  City." 

"Is  she  in  your  house?"  interrupted  Norman, 
sharply. 

"Yes,  she  is,"  said  James,  defiantly. 

"Permanently?" 

136 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

"No;  until  you  return." 

Norman  ignored  the  insinuation.  "I  don't  wish 
her  to  be  a  burden  upon  anyone,"  he  said.  "There 
is  no  reason  for  that." 

"Burden!"  cried  James,  wrathfully.  "Surely 
my  wife  can  have  her  own  sister  to  stay  with  her?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Norman,  soothingly.  He  didn't 
understand  his  relative  so  well  as  Marion  did.  "I 
don't  intend  to  say  anything  to  hurt  you,  James.  I 
only  want  you  to  understand  that  Marjorie  is  in  a 
position  to  provide  for  herself." 

James  consented  to  be  mollified.  "No  doubt," 
he  said.  "But  just  at  present  she  is  making  us  a 
visit,  so  I've  seen  a  good  deal  of  her,  and  I  want 
you  to  be  quite  clear  about  this — whatever  she  may 
have  made  you  put  up  with  in  the  past,  she  is  pay- 
ing for  now.  She  knew  I  was  coming  here  when  I 
left  her  this  morning,  and  I  wish  you  had  seen  the 
look  in  her  face  instead  of  me.  I've  seen  nothing 
else  all  day.  I  see  it  now." 

Norman  made  no  immediate  comment.  He  rose 
and  poked  the  fire;  then  crossed  to  his  writing- 
table  and  made  some  inconsiderable  re-arrangement 
of  the  papers.  At  length  he  returned  to  his  seat. 
He  was  plainly  moved. 

137 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

"I  hardly  realised  this,"  he  said.  "I  thought  her 
attachment  had  become  methodical — a  matter  of 
habit — nothing  more." 

James  pressed  his  advantage.  "That's  likely 
enough,"  he  said.  "In  the  old  days  she  was  too 
contented  to  see  very  far  into  the  deeper  side  of 
existence.  She  moved  quietly  about,  taking  the 
good  things  that  came  in  her  way  pretty  much  as 
a  matter  of  course.  And  inclined  to  be  a  trifle  stub- 
born, perhaps,  when  little  things  didn't  please  her. 
It's  all  very  different  now.  That  poor  child  has 
awakened  to  realities  with  a  vengeance.  You've  hit 
her  uncommonly  hard,  Norman." 

"James,  I  haven't," cried  Norman,  with  appeal  in 
his  face.  "I've  taken  away  from  her  an  unworthy 
block  of  humanity  who  was  never  fit  to  mate  with 
her  and  never  could  be." 

James  shook  his  head.  "You'd  better  come  and 
try  and  persuade  her  of  that,"  he  said.  "At  present, 
I'll  undertake  to  say,  she  thinks  of  you,  not  less, 
but  a  good  deal  more  than  on  the  day  you  married 
her.  And  she  was  tolerably  happy  that  day,  wasn't 
she?  Don't  you  remember,  when  I  sat  on  my  hat 
in  the  vestry,  and  Marion  refused  to  drive  home 
with  me?" 

138 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

Well  done,  James !  The  little  reminiscence  was 
an  inspiration.  Norman's  features  brightened  with 
almost  boyish  delight.  "Yes,"  he  exclaimed,  with 
sudden  gaiety,  "and  Marjorie  had  to  ask  you  to 
kiss  her." 

"So  she  did,"  said  James,  not  the  least  abashed. 
"Well,  that's  an  order  a  woman  won't  tackle  unless 
she's  in  moderate  fettle,  eh?" 

"Ask  Marion,"  said  Norman,  with  a  smile.  He 
turned  his  eyes  and  looked  into  the  fire,  and  there 
was  a  pause. 

James  rose  and  stood  with  his  back  to  the  hearth. 

"Look  here,  Norman,"  he  said,  "you  are  both  of 
you  too  good  for  one  to  care  to  see  you  make  a  mess 
of  your  lives.  Make  it  up.  Come  back  to  her. 
She's  ready  to  take  you,  and  she'll  overlook  any- 
thing that  has  happened  in  the  interval.  These 
delicate  misunderstandings  have  a  way  of  growing 
very  big,  when  it  only  needs  a  little  plain  speaking 
to  put  them  right.  You've  cleared  the  air.  I'll  go 
so  far  to  say  that  the  lesson  may  do  her  no  harm. 
It's  not  an  easy  thing  to  say,  but  I  think  you'll  find 
she'll  make  an  effort." 

The  last  sentence  was  a  tactical  mistake.  Nor- 
139 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

man's  face  set.  "Upon  that  point,"  he  said,  "you 
must  allow  me  to  judge." 

James  attempted  to  cover  his  error.  "Oh,  you 
mustn't  be  too  exacting,"  he  said,  genially.  "The 
women  are  different  from  us." 

"So  I  thought,"  said  Norman,  "for  eight  years." 

"You  don't  think  so  any  longer?" 

"This  cumulated  refinement  that  we  were  speak- 
ing of,"  said  Norman,  "is  responsible  for  many 
things:  among  others,  for  the  profound  conceal- 
ment of  the  truth,  almost  startling  once  it  is  re- 
alised, that  the  world  is  throbbing  with  women — 
good,  cultured,  pure  women — for  whom  these  nat- 
ural laws  have  as  deep  and  intense  a  meaning  as 
they  have  for  me." 

"Your  first  opinion,"  remarked  James,  "was 
founded  upon  one  woman;  your  second,  I  take  it, 
is  founded  upon  another.  Probably  both  are 
wrong." 

"No,"  said  Norman,  "both  are  right.  Men, 
as  a  whole,  are  made  in  a  mould;  women  run  to 
extremes." 

James  returned  to  the  charge.  "Come  back  to 
her,  Norman,"  he  said  again. 

But  the  moment  for  that  appeal  to  succeed — if  it 
140 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

had  ever  existed — had  passed.  Too  strong  a  light 
had  now  been  thrown  on  the  white  dividing  line, 
the  permanent,  ineradicable  difference. 

"I  cannot,  James,"  said  Norman,  simply.  "Even 
if  I  had  the  wish  to  retrace  my  steps,  you  probably 
realise  that  conditions  have  arisen  in  the  meantime 
which  make  it  no  longer  possible." 

"Fiddlesticks!"  said  James,  somewhat  impa- 
tiently. "You  left  your  wife." 

"With  whom  I  had  no  such  tie,"  said  Norman, 
quietly. 

"Oh,  come,  my  dear  fellow,  what  does  it  amount 
to?"  James  glanced  round  the  room.  "You  are 
evidently  alone  here.  Before  I  came,  I  rather  ex- 
pected to  find — "  he  hesitated  " — well,  what  I 
haven't  found." 

Norman  looked  at  him  with  a  little  surprise. 
"You  don't  suppose — "  he  began. 

James  held  up  his  hand.  "I  want  to  know 
nothing,"  he  said,  firmly;  "I  make  no  inquiries. 
It's  enough  for  me  that  there's  no  sign  of  any  par- 
ticularly definite  arrangement — nothing  necessarily 
lasting,  I  mean — nothing  that  can't  be — arranged." 

"Pecuniarily?"  said  Norman,  flashing. 

"No,  no;  I  said — arranged." 
141 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

"James,  I  have  the  greatest  respect  for  you,"  said 
Norman,  quietly;  "but  on  this  subject  we  shall 
never  agree.  We  approach  it  from  too  widely  dis- 
similar standpoints.  I  conceive  I  have  contracted 
a  very  decided  obligation,  and  it  cannot  be  'ar- 
ranged.' " 

There  was  finality  in  his  tone.  James  crossed 
the  room  and  picked  up  his  overcoat.  Norman 
helped  him  on  with  it  in  silence.  Suddenly  James 
turned  round  and  faced  him  again.  He  was  more 
moved  than  he  cared  to  suppose  himself  capable 
of  being. 

"Before  I  go,  Norman,"  he  cried,  "think  again. 
It's  for  your  own  happiness  as  well  as  hers;  it's  for 
your  own  good  as  well  as  hers;  I'm  convinced  of  it. 
Upon  my  soul,  when  I  think  of  that  child's  face,  I 
could  almost  kneel  to  you.  For  heaven's  sake, 
make  an  effort,  man ;  don't  sink  without  a  struggle. 
She's  your  own  wife,  and  she  loves  you;  if  she 
didn't  know  it  before,  she  knows  it  now — and, 
damn  it  all !  I  don't  believe  she'll  ever  forget  it." 

Norman's  face  lost  its  sternness.  He  was  plainly 
very  much  touched  by  the  other's  earnestness. 

"You  are  one  of  the  best  fellows  that  ever  lived, 
James,"  he  said.  "You  are  entitled  to  sniff  when  I 


MR  AND  MRS   V1LLIERS 

say  it  to  you,  but  it  is  none  the  less  true,  that  it  in- 
volved a  considerable  wrench  to  cut  myself  off,  as  I 
have  done,  from  you  and  Marion.  I  hate  to  be  on 
the  other  side  of  the  fence  from  you.  But  there  I 
am,  and  there  I  must  remain.  I  fought  it  all  out 
a  month  ago,  and  now  there  is  added  this  other 
circumstance  that  we  were  speaking  of,  to  divide 
me  even  more  widely  from  Marjorie.  Don't  think 
I  am  indifferent  to  her  happiness.  Very  far  indeed 
from  that.  If  it  had  been  possible  to  separate  one's 
higher  from  one's  lower  nature — the  mental  and 
spiritual  from  the  physical  frame — I  should  never 
have  left  her;  but  nothing  can  persuade  me — 
knowing  her  as  I  do — that  it  can  achieve  her  hap- 
piness to  be  linked  to  a  man  of  my  nature,  unless 
he  lives  such  a  life  as  is  unbearable  to  him.  I  think 
she  ought  to  divorce  me,  James.  I  don't  suggest 
it  for  my  sake,  but  for  her  own.  She  is  entitled  to 
her  freedom;  and  there  must  be  many  men  in  the 
world — in  fact,  I  know  there  are — who  could  value 
fully,  and  without  distraction,  that  gentle  soul  of 
hers.  As  for  me,  I  have  made  my  bed — I  don't 
say  I'm  glad,  I  don't  say  I'm  sorry — but  I  intend 
to  lie  upon  it." 


143 


CHAPTER  XIV 

JAMES  BAKER  was  consistently  a  well-dressed 
man.  He  couldn't  have  been  Marion's  husband 
and  anything  else.  A  natural  instinct  towards 
neatness  had  been  judiciously  fostered  by  his  spouse, 
until  an  orderly  and  well-turned-out  appearance  had 
become  as  essential  to  his  happiness  as  his  morn- 
ing paper.  To  what  extent  self-respect  and  a  pass- 
able exterior  may  be  inter-dependent  is  perhaps 
not  sufficiently  recognised.  As  over-dressing  de- 
notes mental  feebleness,  so  a  slovenly  and  careless 
habit  of  clothes  is  not  infrequently  the  outward  and 
visible  sign  of  moral  deterioration. 

The  exceptional  glossiness  of  his  silk  hats  was  a 
point  upon  which  James  especially  prided  himself. 
As  he  leaned  forward  in  the  hansom  which  was 
taking  him  home  after  his  interview  with  Norman, 
his  gloved  hands  hanging  loosely  over  the  doors, 
a  particularly  exquisite  specimen  of  that  eccentric 

144 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIEES 

form  of  head-dress,  set  at  just  a  fraction  of  a 
jaunty  angle,  came  into  conspicuous  prominence, 
and  could  fairly  have  challenged  comparison  with 
the  shiniest  of  its  brethren  which  were  passed  on 
the  way. 

It  cannot  be  said  that  he  was  in  any  way  sur- 
prised by  the  failure  of  his  mission.  He  had 
founded  no  great  hopes  upon  it.  Nevertheless,  he 
alighted  from  the  cab  at  his  own  door  with  con- 
siderable misgiving.  That  there  was  a  quarter  in 
which  hopes  were  founded,  and  very  high  ones, 
he  was  painfully  conscious.  It  occurred  to  him, 
now,  that  his  discouragement  of  them  might  have 
been  more  decided  than  it  had  been.  He  remem- 
bered that  the  anxious  face  looking  up  at  him  had 
led  him  to  parent  an  appreciably  more  optimistic 
view  than  his  real  feelings  warranted. 

Moreover,  it  appeared  increasingly  likely  that  it 
would  fall  to  his  own  lot  to  disperse  those  hopes. 
That  was  a  task  he  had  privately  assigned  to 
Marion ;  but  neither  the  sound  of  his  latch-key,  nor 
that  of  his  subsequent  movements — not,  on  this  oc- 
casion, it  must  be  owned,  very  strenuously  subdued 
— brought  the  customary  greeting  of  the  familiar 
figure.  He  even  whistled  unconcernedly  a  few  bars 

145 


MR  AND  MRS   V1LLIERS 

from  one  of  the  airs  of  a  musical  comedy,  but  that 
also  proved  ineffective. 

"Where  is  your  mistress?"  he  asked  a  maid  who 
was  crossing  the  hall. 

"She  is  upstairs,  sir,  with  Mrs  Villiers,"  replied 
the  maid. 

"In  her  boudoir?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

This  explained  matters.  Not  the  most  persever- 
ing shuffling,  not  any  whistle  which  the  most  gen- 
erous interpreter  could  suppose  to  be  taking  place 
for  the  enjoyment  of  the  whistler,  could  penetrate 
to  that  remote  apartment.  James  ascended  the 
four  flights  of  stairs  which  led  to  it  and  opened  the 
door. 

The  two  sisters  were  seated  before  the  fire,  a 
small  table  between  them,  upon  which  were  strewn 
various  feminine  articles — needles,  scissors,  strands 
of  coloured  silk,  a  thimble,  loose  odds  and  ends 
of  cambric.  Each  had  a  piece  of  embroidery  in 
her  hands.  Looking  at  Marjorie  as  she  bent  over 
her  work,  James  wondered — as  he  had  wondered 
once  or  twice  since  the  estrangement — how  she  had 
come,  in  the  first  instance,  to  attract  such  a  man 
as  Norman.  Her  dark-brown  hair  was  drawn 

146 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

rather  tightly  back,  leaving  an  unnecessary  depth 
of  forehead  exposed  and  emphasising  its  narrow- 
ness. Coupled  with  her  thin  lips  and  somewhat 
too  pointed  nose,  this  gave  her,  in  her  present  atti- 
tude, an  aspect  almost  of  primness.  It  was  not 
until  she  raised  her  eyes,  and  you  saw  through 
their  soft  depths  into  her  clear  soul,  and,  especially, 
not  until  she  spoke,  and  you  came  under  the  spell 
of  her  voice — its  innate  refinement,  its  unconscious 
sweetness  and  gentleness — that  you  realised,  not 
only  the  beauty  of  her  character,  but  the  charm  of 
her  presence. 

She  half  rose  as  James  entered,  flushed,  then 
turned  pale  again  and  sat  perfectly  still.  He 
crossed  the  room  and  occupied  a  chair  next  her. 

He  took  the  work  from  her  hand  and  examined 
it.  "Well,  little  Marjorie,"  he  said,  "I've  seen  the 
dragon." 

Marjorie  didn't  look  up.  "Is  he  happy?"  she 
said. 

James  was  glad  of  the  respite.  He  smiled  jocu- 
larly. "You  beat  me  the  first  time,"  he  said.  "I 
didn't  ask  him." 

"Did  he  seem  happy?"  said  Marjorie. 

"Well,  that's  rather  a  difficult  question  to  an- 
147 


MB  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

swer,"  replied  James.  "I  can't  say  he  did  and  I 
can't  say  he  didn't.  Perhaps,  on  the  whole,"  he 
added,  slowly,  "not  quite." 

Marjorie  suddenly  looked  into  his  face.  "What 
makes  you  say  that?" 

"Really,  I  don't  know  that  I  can  precisely  ex- 
plain," said  James.  "Small  hints,  perhaps;  nothing 
more.  It's  only  an  impression."  He  was  still 
weakly  avoiding  the  inevitable  plunge.  "Does  he 
strike  you  as  the  kind  of  man  who  is  exactly  capable 
of  seeming  happy?" 

Marjorie  offered  no  opinion.  "Is  he  alone?" 
was  her  next  question — quite  quietly;  but  she 
looked  down  again. 

"I  saw  no  one  else,"  replied  James.  "He  is  liv- 
ing by  himself  in  a  small  flat.  Mind  you,  I  don't 
intend  to  say  there's  no  one  in  the  background." 
He  took  her  hand  and  stroked  it.  "But  we  knew 
that,  didn't  we?  We  knew  that,  you  and  I?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Marjorie,  without  emotion. 

"And  Marjorie,  my  dear,"  James  continued, 
gently,  "I  think  we  shall  have  to  try  to  get  used 
to  the  idea  that  he  is  not  coming  back.  He  has 
no  ill-will  towards  us,  to  any  of  us — quite  the  re- 
verse. Our  interview  was  perfectly  friendly;  we 

148 


talked  the  whole  thing  over  from  beginning  to  end. 
I  put  it  to  him,  very  plainly,  that,  in  my  opinion, 
he  was  behaving  in  a  way  in  which  he  had  no 
shadow  of  right  to  behave ;  but,  for  all  that,  I  gave 
him  to  understand  that,  on  our  side,  we  were  will- 
ing to  make  allowances  and  to  start  afresh.  Well, 
I'm  sorry  to  say  it  was  no  use;  he  talked  about  us 
all  with  a  great  deal  of  regret,  but  it  appears  to  suit 
him  to  live  differently,  he  thinks  it's  best  for  every- 
body concerned,  and  when  Norman  Villiers  makes 
up  his  mind — " 

He  stopped.  Softly,  without  any  parade,  with- 
out any  breaking  appeal  to  sympathy,  the  tears 
were  falling,  one  by  one,  on  Marjorie's  lap.  It  was 
as  if  she  had  said  that  she  expected  no  sympathy, 
that  she  felt  she  called  for  none,  but  that  she  could 
not  but  weep.  It  was  infinitely  touching. 

James  rose  and  crossed  the  room,  and  became 
intently  absorbed  in  a  picture  of  cupids  gambolling 
about  a  figure  of  Flora.  How  near  he  came  him- 
self, at  that  moment,  to  some  regrettable  weakness 
it  would  never  be  safe  to  ask  him.  All  that  could 
be  seen  from  the  back  was  that  he  clenched  his  fists 
viciously.  And,  under  his  breath,  he  appeared  to 
address  some  remarks  to  Flora,  upon  the  subject 

119 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

of  Villiers,  which  would  probably  have  considerably 
astonished  that  ethereal  young  damsel's  little  white 
ears. 

The  emergency  of  a  woman's  tears,  it  must  be 
admitted,  is  one  which  the  masculine  temperament 
is  singularly  unfitted  to  face.  But,  though  James 
had  found  it  necessary  to  beat  a  hasty  and  igno- 
minious retreat,  Marjorie  was  not  left  without  sup- 
port. Marion  crossed  quietly  in  front  of  the  table 
and  sat  down  beside  her.  She  gathered  the  droop- 
ing form  into  her  arms  and  laid  the  bowed  head 
upon  her  bosom.  Marion  could  do  nothing  with- 
out grace,  and  her  manner  now  was  full  of  it.  She 
didn't  tell  Marjorie  not  to  cry;  she  refrained  from 
dabbing  her  eyes  with  officious  and  irritating  cam- 
bric; neither  did  she  think  it  necessary  to  worry 
her  ears  with  any,  possibly  true,  but  not  immediate- 
ly consolatory,  reflections  upon  the  subject  of  the 
ultimate  benefit  of  present  tribulation.  Lightly 
soothing  the  soft  brown  hair,  quite  quietly,  yet  with 
infinite  solace  and  tenderness  in  every  touch,  she 
was  content  to  hold  this  stricken  sister  in  her  arms, 
while  she  wept  silently,  unchecked  and  unchided, 
from  her  poor  troubled  heart. 

After  a  while  she  said  gently:  "Give  him  time, 
150 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

dear.  James  says  he  doesn't  seem  to  be  quite 
happy  even  now,  and  he  has  only  been  away  from 
you  a  little  more  than  a  week.  Sooner  or  later  he 
must  tire  of  this  new  life  and  realise  what  he  has 
lost.  Then  he  will  be  very  lucky  if  you  are  still 
ready  to  forgive  him." 

"I  don't  care  what  he  has  done,"  cried  Marjorie, 
almost  passionately,  her  voice  choked  in  the  lace 
ruffles  of  her  sister's  bodice,  "or  what  he  does,  I'll 
wait  for  ever,  if  he'll  only,  only  come  back." 

Marion  softly  pressed  back  her  forlorn  little 
head  and  continued  to  stroke  it  in  silence.  Pres- 
ently she  said,  as  if  in  answer  to  her  own  thoughts, 
"So  much  depends  upon  this  other  woman.  You 
didn'f  see  her,  James?"  she  added,  turning  to  her 
husband. 

James  came  back  to  the  fireplace.  "Not  that  I 
know,"  he  said.  "I  met  one  coming  down  the  stairs 
as  I  was  going  up.  It  occurred  to  me  that  she 
might  have  been  to  see  Norman." 

"What  was  she  like?" 

"Uncommonly  handsome,"  said  James. 

"Perhaps  you  were  right,  then.  Was  she — I 
hate  the  word — a  lady?" 

"She  wasn't  loud  or  flashy,  if  that's  what  you 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

mean,"  said  James.  "Stylishly  dressed,  but  in  good 
taste.  Yes,  I  should  say  so,  certainly." 

Marion  was  silent  for  a  time.  "I'm  sorry,"  she 
said,  at  length.  "It  will  take  him  longer  to  tire. 
But  he  will  tire;  he  will  come  back.  He  must." 
James  said  nothing,  and  she  added,  rather  sharply, 
"Don't  you  think  so,  James?" 

James  had  no  intention  to  commit  himself  to  an 
opinion,  however.  His  optimism  of  the  morning 
had  never  been  very  real,  and  his  visit  to  Norman 
had  operated  destructively  upon  such  little  sub- 
stance as  it  possessed.  That  optimism,  moreover, 
had  proved  too  severe  a  handicap,  when  it  subse- 
quently came  to  be  falsified,  to  be  lightly  assumed 
again.  He  was  silent,  therefore,  endeavouring  to 
express  to  Marion,  by  a  rather  pathetically  blank 
expression  of  countenance,  that  her  interrogatory 
should  not  be  pressed. 

He  could  have  plumped  out  a  direct  negative 
with  less  damaging  effect.  The  pause  on  the  ques- 
tion beat  steadily  into  Marjorie's  brain  and  bore 
to  it,  with  dumb  intensity,  the  stunning  compre- 
hension of  her  absolute  loss.  A  rush  of  pain — 
overwhelming,  uncontrollable — flooded  through 
her.  She  sprang  to  her  feet,  choking  back  the  sobs, 

152 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

her  wide  eyes  stricken  and  imploring,  the  staunched 
tears  still  wet  on  the  lashes  and  on  her  cheeks : 

"Oh,  James— never?    Never?" 

It  was  more  than  James  could  bear.  "Yes, 
there's  one  way,"  he  cried,  fiercely,  "I  can  go  and 
carry  him  here.  And  if  you  say  the  word,  I'll  do  it" 


153 


CHAPTER  XV 

MARJORIE  did  not  call  upon  James  to  carry  his 
formidable  threat  into  practice.  On  the  other 
hand,  it  cannot  be  said  that  she  turned  with  a  con- 
scious effort  to  "face  the  music."  She  continued  to 
live,  since  live  she  must — that  was  all.  She  looked 
forth  upon  a  world  drab,  featureless,  blank.  Her 
daily  life  became  a  routine,  without  energy  and 
without  colour.  Meals  with  her,  at  this  time,  were 
a  periodic  ceremony  and  nothing  more.  To  poor 
James  it  grew  to  be  a  matter  of  almost  painful  con- 
cern to  watch  her  knife  and  fork  pecking  for  a»few 
minutes,  with  obvious  and  distracting  inutility, 
among  the  food  on  her  plate,  only  to  be  laid  quietly 
down  when  the  effort  had  lasted  as  long  as  polite- 
ness demanded — hardly  a  morsel  eaten — and  the 
plate  carried  away.  He  would  make  careful  and 
lengthy  dives  into  some  dish  in  front  of  him,  in 
search  of  an  especial  tit-bit,  and  dab  it  tentatively 
but  hopefully  on  her  plate,  when  found;  which 

154 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

Marjorie,  in  order  to  please  him,  would  almost 
choke  herself  in  the  heroic  endeavour  to  eat. 
There  was  no  conscious  listlessness  about  her;  but 
a  heavy  extraneous  weariness  settled  on  her  and 
pervaded  all  her  actions.  Her  occasional  valiant 
efforts  to  join  cheerfully  and  naturally  in  conver- 
sation were  almost  sadder  than  her  silence;  her 
cheeks  became  pinched  and  pale;  and  she  came 
down  every  morning  with  eyes  which  had  plainly 
slept  little  and  wept  much. 

But  she  was  far  from  attempting  to  inflict  her 
sorrows  upon  others ;  she  uttered  no  complaints ;  the 
subject  of  her  troubles  was  never  referred  to  unless 
directly  introduced  from  outside.  She  attended  to 
the  welfare  and  the  clothing  of  her  two  little  girls; 
sent  them  daily  on  their  accustomed  walks  with 
their  nurse;  listened  to  their  chatter,  talked  to  them, 
played  with  them,  sympathetically,  but  without 
spirit.  It  was  a  quality  of  her  temperament — as  per- 
haps it  is  with  many  of  us — that  she  was  unable  to 
appraise  the  full  value  of  a  good  in  secure  posses- 
sion. Norman  had  seemed  little  to  her  until  his  place 
was  left  empty.  Now,  though  she  bore  to  her  chil- 
dren all  that  wonderful  mother-love  that  is  given  to 
women,  their  presence  at  her  side  could  not  coun- 

155 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

terbalance — it  could  hardly  alleviate — her  loss. 
Sometimes  she  would  seize  one  or  other  of  them  in 
a  sudden  spasm  of  affection,  and  leave  the  startled 
little  face  wet  with  her  tears.  The  next  moment 
she  would  put  it  gently  aside  and  return  to  her  man- 
ner of  settled  sadness. 

During  this  time  James  and  Marion  did  all  in 
the  power  of  mortals  to  turn  her  thoughts.  She 
understood  the  kindness  which  prompted  those  ef- 
forts and  did  her  utmost  to  respond.  The  struggle 
required,  however,  invariably  reacted  in  a  depres- 
sion of  her  spirits  even  below  their  normal  level. 
And  the  single,  steadfastly  present  idea  could  not 
be  exorcised  even  for  a  moment.  Between  the  acts 
at  a  theatre,  walking  in  Regent  Street,  driving 
through  the  Strand,  in  a  Bond  Street  tea-room, 
when  she  was  not  absorbed,  she  was  furtively  scan- 
ning the  people  about  her,  with  half-frightened 
hope,  in  search  of  one  familiar  figure.  It  became 
by  degrees  her  one  distraction,  all  that  raised  her 
out  of  the  dead  level  of  a  drab  existence — that 
trembling  hope  of  catching  a  glimpse  in  the  crowd, 
at  some  moment  in  the  course  of  months,  of  years, 
of  a  clear-featured,  thoughtful,  resolute  face. 
What  she  would  do  if  her  search  should  prove  suc- 

156 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

cessful  probably  she  hardly  knew  herself.  It  was 
at  such  times  that  Marion  endeavoured  to  instil 
into  her  the  doctrine  of  the  fish  in  the  sea.  It  was 
a  doctrine  which  found  in  Marjorie,  it  must  be 
said,  a  singularly  unfavourable  soil  to  take  root  in. 
It  was,  perhaps,  unfortunate  for  Marjorie  at  this 
period  that  she  had  never  been  enthusiastically  ab- 
sorbed by  the,  usually,  feminine  distraction  of 
frocks  and  frou-frous.  She  accompanied  Marion 
upon  her  shopping  excursions  in  the  West  End, 
but  her  interest  in  the  subject,  at  the  best  of  times 
spasmodic  and  evanescent,  was  not  now  to  be  pro- 
voked by  the  most  alluring  display  of  modistic  de- 
lights. Her  method  of  clothing  herself  had  always 
been  of  the  simplest — which  is  not  to  say  the  most 
economical.  Any  article  of  attire  which  happened 
to  attract  her  wandering  fancy  of  the  moment  she 
bought  recklessly,  irrespective  of  price.  If  it 
suited  her  afterwards,  she  wore  it;  if — as  generally 
happened — it  didn't,  she  discarded  it  at  once  and 
without  a  qualm.  And  usually  she  chose  to  wear 
habitually  the  most  unbecoming  of  her  purchases. 
It  was  a  method  which  involved  an  amount  of 
wanton  waste  which  had  always  jarred  considerably 
upon  Norman's  nerves,  and  it  did  not  even  possess 

157 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

the  saving  virtue  of  being  able  to  afford  her  a  trivial 
outlet  for  her  thoughts,  now  that  they  were  run- 
ning too  persistently  in  one  consuming  channel. 

Poor  Marjorie!  She  did  all  in  her  power  to 
keep  her  troubles  to  herself  and  to  be  the  least  pos- 
sible nuisance  to  those  about  her;  but,  for  all  that, 
it  must  be  confessed  that  the  effect  of  her  presence 
on  the  Baker  household  was  emphatically  the  re- 
verse of  invigorating.  Possibly  there  is  no  more 
depressing  influence  than  the  constant  society  of  one 
for  whom  life  has  lost  its  savour  and  the  earth  its 
raison  d'etre.  Even  Marion's  calm  nature  began 
to  be  affected  by  the  unchanging  atmosphere  of  sub- 
dued melancholy  in  which  she  lived.  As  for  James, 
it  appeared  to  him,  as  the  days  went  on,  that  the 
hearty  appetite  he  enjoyed  was  decidedly  offensive; 
his  post-prandial  cigar  and  half-glass  of  Burgundy 
became  things  to  be  indulged  in  apologetically  and 
in  retreat,  after  the  ladies  had  retired  to  the  draw- 
ing-room. He  arrived  at  the  conclusion,  in  short, 
that  a  state  of  affairs  had  been  reached  for  which 
a  remedy  must  somehow  be  found. 

In  these  circumstances,  his  mind  turned  to  that 
curative  agent  in  whose  universal  beneficent  powers 

158 


MR  AND  MRS  F1LLIERS 

the  sturdy  British  character  reposes  unshakable 
faith,  in  spite  of  steady  rebuffs — the  medical  man. 

"She  had  better  see  someone,"  he  said  to  Marion, 
a  fortnight  after  his  visit  to  Norman. 

"A  doctor?"  said  Marion. 

"Yes." 

Marion  shook  her  head.  "I'm  afraid  there  is 
no  doctor  with  power  to  cure  Marjorie's  ailment," 
said  she. 

They  were  sitting  in  James's  smoke-room,  after 
Marjorie  had  gone  to  bed. 

"Then  there's  nothing  for  it  but  to  take  the  bull 
by  the  horns,"  said  James.  "Things  can't  go  on 
as  they  are.  She  is  wasting  away  before  our  eyes." 

"Do  you  mean  she  ought  to  divorce  him?"  said 
Marion. 

"Yes,"  said  James,  "and  forget  him." 

Marion  bent  forward  and  looked  into  the  fire, 
resting  her  chin  on  her  hands.  "She  may  divorce 
him,"  she  said,  presently,  "though  I  doubt  it;  but 
she  will  never  forget  him." 

"It  will  help  her  to  do  it,  at  all  events,"  said 
James.  "Once  do  away  with  the  formal  tie  and 
get  her  out  of  her  present  false  position,  and  she 
will  be  able  to  face  the  world  again  on  equal  terms. 

159 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

Put  a  clean  sheet  of  paper  in  front  of  her,  and  in 
time  she  may  feel  inclined  to  write  upon  it." 

"You  may  be  right,  dear,"  said  Marion;  "but 
isn't  that  rather  like  cutting  a  tangle  "which  it  is 
too  much  trouble  to  unravel  ?  I  can't  help  thinking 
that  when  two  people  are  genuinely  attached  to  one 
another — as  Marjorie  is,  in  this  case,  and  prob- 
ably Norman,  too,  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart — 
there  ought  to  be  some  other  way." 

"There  ought  to  be,  I  daresay,"  said  James, 
drily,  "but  there  isn't." 

"Supposing  Marjorie  went  to  see  him  herself?" 

"It  would  be  painful  to  both  of  them,"  said 
James,  after  pondering  the  point;  "and  I  don't  see 
what  good  would  be  likely  to  come  of  it." 

"Norman's  pride  may  stand  in  his  way,"  said 
Marion.  "However  much  he  desired  it,  he  couldn't 
return  to  Marjorie  now,  unless  she  asked  him. 
They  have  been  separated  nearly  a  month  by  this 
time.  And  a  month  can  work  wonders  occasion- 
ally," she  added,  smiling.  "Remember  how  hor- 
ribly tired  of  me  you  always  are  when  you  go  up  to 
Yorkshire  for  the  shooting  in  August,  but  I've  be- 
come quite  a  nice  person  by  the  beginning  of  Sep- 
tember." 

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MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

"Almost  livable  with,"  said  James,  laughing. 

"An  annual  tonic  of  healthy  separation,"  said 
Marion,  "is  as  essential  to  the  happiness  of  most 
married  people  as  the  month  in  Switzerland  or  at 
Brighton  is  to  their  health." 

"Possibly  true,  my  dear,"  said  James;  "but  I 
hardly  fancy  the  remedy  would  be  drastic  enough 
in  the  present  case." 

"At  any  rate,  it's  one  they  were  not  in  the  habit 
of  trying,"  said  Marion. 

"And  the  situation  is  complicated,"  James  added, 
"by  what  Norman  called  'other  circumstances.' ' 

"Yes,  of  course;  Marjorie  knows  that;  it  is  not 
a  bar." 

"So  she  believes,"  said  James.  "Marjorie  is 
tingling  to  her  finger-tips  with  personal  delicacy; 
but  I'm  half-inclined  to  think  that,  upon  a  point  of 
abstract  morals,  Norman's  is  the  sounder  judgment 
of  the  two." 

"It  is  the  man's  judgment,"  said  Marion,  "which 
comes  from  reason;  Marjorie's  is  the  woman's, 
which  comes  from  the  heart." 

"We  must  talk  it  over  with  her  plainly  in  the 
morning,"  said  James,  finally.  "This  state  of  drift 
must  be  put  an  end  to  somehow.  It's  not  good  for 

161 


MR  AND  MRS  riLLIEES 

her,  and  it's  not  good  for  him;  and,"  he  added 
honestly,  partly  to  himself,  "it's  not  good  for  us." 

When  James  arrived  downstairs  on  the  follow- 
ing morning  the  two  ladies  were  already  seated  at 
breakfast.  He  wished  them  a  cheery  good-morn- 
ing and  took  his  place.  Three  or  four  letters  stood 
by  his  plate,  which  he  proceeded  leisurely  to  open 
and  read.  He  was  not  guilty  of  intentional  rude- 
ness; probably  he  would  have  found  some  difficulty 
in  realising  that  his  action  could  be  so  characterised, 
had  it  been  pointed  out  to  him.  This  is  one  of  the 
minor  discourtesies  of  life,  not  requiring,  one  would 
suppose,  pre-eminently  keen  perceptions  to  appre- 
ciate, yet  failing  of  appreciation  by  a  very  large 
number  of  men  and  women  who  would  indignantly 
resent  any  suspicion  of  their  breeding. 

Having  completed  the  perusal  of  the  letters  and 
made  some  comments  upon  their  contents  to 
Marion — comments  which  could  not  interest  nor 
even  be  understood  by  M'arjorie — he  placed  them 
back  in  their  envelopes  and  laid  them  in  a  little  pile 
at  his  side.  Then  he  turned  to  his  sister-in-law 
with  a  kindly,  but  graver  expression  than  was  habit- 
ual with  him. 

162 


MR  AND   MRS   FILLIERS 

"Mariorie,  my  dear,"  he  said,  quietly,  "I  think 
the  time  has  come  when  this  question  of  your  re- 
lations to  your  husband  will  ha.ve  to  be  faced." 

Marjorie  hardly  knew  what  to  expect.  She 
looked  up  with  an  expression  partly  of  alarm,  partly 
of  challenge.  "I  don't  understand,"  she  said. 

"It  is  simply  this,  my  dear,"  explained  James, 
as  gently  as  he  could.  "There  are  a  couple  of  plain 
truths  staring  us  in  the  face,  which  won't  appear 
any  different  however  long  we  look  at  them:  he 
has  deserted  you,  in  the  first  place;  and,  in  the 
second,  it  is  of  no  use  attempting  to  shut  our  eyes 
to  the  fact  that  he  has  evidently  not  remained 
faithful." 

Marjorie  turned  red,  and  then  white.  "Need  we 
talk  of  that,  James?"  she  said,  quickly.  It  was 
not  that  her  pride  was  wounded  by  his  assertion — 
she  had  accepted  the  fact  long  ago,  and  become 
used  to  it — but  simply  that  her  susceptibility  rose 
in  arms  against  reference  to  such  a  subject  by  a 
man. 

James  did  not  misunderstand  her;  and  it  gave 
him  the  first  direct  glimpse  he  had  yet  had  of  the 
nature  of  that  which  Norman  had  found  un- 
bearable. 

163 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

"No,"  he  answered,  "we  needn't,  Marjorie;  ex- 
cept to  say  that  those  two  facts  in  conjunction  give 
you  a  legal  right  to  divorce." 

"I  will  never  divorce  him,"  cried  Marjorie,  ve- 
hemently, almost  in  tears,  "never!" 

James  put  down  his  knife  and  fork,  and  cleared 
his  throat.  His  present  task  was  one  which  he  rel- 
ished as  little  as  any  that  could  have  been  given  him. 

"Now,  my  dear,"  he  said,  gravely,  "I  want  you 
to  try  to  look  at  this  matter  calmly  and  dispassion- 
ately. Don't  suppose  I  can't  understand  how  diffi- 
cult that  is  for  you  to  do;  still,  I  ask  you  to  do  it, 
if  you  can.  There  is  a  principle  involved  which  is 
quite  apart  from  any  personal  sentiment  and  incli- 
nation whatever.  In  my  opinion — I  urge  it  upon 
you  as  a  plain  man  who  takes  a  plain  view — it  is 
your  duty  to- take  this  step." 

"I  can't,  James,"  cried  Marjorie,  almost  wildly, 
"I  can't.  It's  all  I  have  of  him  now — all,  all. 
Don't  ask  me  to  give  up  even  that."  The  tears 
were  in  her  eyes  and  her  voice  was  choked.  "He  is 
my  husband,"  she  wailed — an  infinite  tenderness  in 
the  word — "my  husband  I" 

There  seemed  a  danger  that  she  would  go  into 
hysterics.  James  resumed  his  breakfast  to  allow 

164 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

her  time  to  recover.  After  a  few  minutes  she  fur- 
tively wiped  the  tears  from  her  eyes  and  returned 
to  the  occupation,  which  James's  first  words  had 
interrupted,  of  breaking  the  toast  on  her  plate  into 
little  pieces.  She  glanced  at  her  sister  with  secret 
appeal  in  her  eyes.  But  Marion  knew  that  she  was 
in  no  danger  of  being  treated  with  undue  harshness, 
and  for  the  moment  she  wisely  refrained  from  join- 
ing in  the  discussion. 

"What  is  the  alternative?"  said  James. 

"I  can  wait,"  Marjorie  said. 

"You  can  drift,  you  can  pine,  you  can  wear  your- 
self to  skin  and  bone,  perhaps  into  the  grave.  Is 
it  fair  to  yourself?  Is  it  fair  to  your  children?" 

"I  shall  not  die,"  said  Marjorie,  quietly. 

"Is  it  fair  to  Norman?" 

"Oh!"  there  was  actual  physical  pain  in  the  in- 
terjection. 

James  had  not  the  heart  to  press  the  point.  In 
his  view,  moreover,  it  was  not  the  argument  which 
should  carry  most  weight,  though,  doubtless,  it 
would  work  the  most  potently  with  her. 

"It  is  the  principle  that  I  want  you  to  look  at, 
Marjorie,"  said  he.  "What  is  to  come  of  this 
waiting?" 

165 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Marjorie,  wearily. 
"He  may  want  me  some  time.  Why  are  you  so 
hard  on  me,  James?  If  you  take  hope  from  me, 
what  have  I  to  live  for?" 

"If  I  seem  hard,"  said  James,  "it  is  only  that  I 
wish  your  good  and  nothing  else.  I  won't  press 
you  one  inch  beyond  where  your  own  sense  is  will- 
ing to  take  you,  when  you  realise  the  facts.  You 
want  to  go  on  waiting,  in  the  hope  that,  some  time 
or  other,  he  may  think  better  of  it  and  come  back 
to  you  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Marjorie. 

"Well,  then,  my  dear,  I  ask  you  to  look  at  it  in 
this  way:  Is  it  right?  Is  it  moral?" 

James's  own  sturdy,  British  opinion  upon  the 
subject  was  evident;  but  Marjorie  only  opened  her 
eyes  a  little  wider  and  looked  at  him.  She  plainly 
failed  to  reach  his  gist. 

"Is  he  to  be  allowed,"  continued  James,  "to  sow 
wild  oats  at- this  period  of  his  life  to  any  extent  he 
chooses,  and  then  to  come  back  to  you  and  say, 
'Marjorie,  I've  had  enough  of  it;  I  want  you  to 
take  me  back  again'?" 

Marjorie  lost  James's  ethical  point  in  the  leaping 
hope  of  the  proposition  it  contained.  Her  eyes 

166 


brightened,  a  soft  colour  flushed  her  cheeks,  the 
whole  of  her  poor,  wan  face  became  pathetically 
illumined.  "Oh,  James,  do  you  think  he  will?" 
The  words  dropped,  on  the  gentle  cadence  of  her 
winning  voice,  with  irresistible  sweetness  and  ap- 
peal. 

James  grunted.  "There's  not  much  doubt  about 
the  answer  you  would  give  him,  if  he  did,"  he  said. 

"Don't  urge  her  any  more,  James,"  said  Marion, 
breaking  in  quietly,  at  last.  "She  can't  do  it  yet. 
After  all,  he  didn't  appear  to  you  to  be  leading  a 
wildlife,  did  he?" 

"No,  he  didn't,"  James  was  obliged  to  admit. 
"He  was  barely  comfortable,  for  that  matter. 
When  I  got  there  the  windows  were  all  open  and 
the  room  was  full  of  smoke.  Norman  isn't  a  man 
who  lets  much  be  seen  on  the  surface,  but  there's 
a  pretty  strong  under-current,  unless  I'm  very  much 
mistaken." 

"Let  us  hope  you  are,"  said  Marion.  It  ap- 
peared to  her  to  be  an  opinion  that  need  not  have 
been  volunteered.  She  refilled  her  husband's  coffee- 
cup,  which  had  recently  arrived  in  her  neighbour- 
hood. "Marjorie,  dear,  would  you  like  to  go  and 
see  him?" 

167 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

A  crimson  flush  of  startled  joy  flooded  Mar- 
jorie's  face,  and  the  tears  again  started  to  her 
eyes.  Apparently  it  was  a  possibility  which  had  not 
even  occurred  to  her  hitherto.  She  could  not  speak. 

Marion  gave  her  time.  "Well,  dear?"  she  said, 
presently. 

"I  think  it  would  annoy  him,"  said  Marjorie, 
pathetically. 

That  was  more  than  James  could  stand. 

"Norman's  feelings  in  the  matter  are  entirely 
beside  the  point,  my  dear,"  he.  said.  "The  whoie 
question  is  whether  such  an  interview  wouldn't  be 
unlikely  to  unsettle  you  and  leave  the  future  more 
difficult  to  face  than  ever? — supposing  nothing 
came  of  it,"  he  almost  forgot  to  add. 

"Oh,  I  would  risk  that — I  would  bear  that," 
said  Marjorie. 

"But  that  is  just  what  we  don't  want,  dear,"  said 
Marion.  "It  grieves  us  to  see  you  suffering." 

"Besides  that,"  said  James,  "it  is  not  a  politic 
frame  of  mind  to  get  into,  if  you  are  to  go  and  see 
Norman.  You  would  have  to  show  him  that  he 
has  made  a  mistake."  He  smiled  at  her  kindly. 
"Just  at  present  I'm  afraid  the  plant  for  that  pur- 

168 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

pose  has  got  a  trifle  out  of  order.  You've  run  your- 
self down  with  worry  and  grown  peaky  and  thin." 

"Marjorie  can  look  nice,"  said  Marion. 

"Yes;  the  trouble  is,"  said  James,  "that  she  re- 
fuses to  look  her  best." 

"I  will  look  my  best,"  put  in  Marjorie,  almost 
breathlessly;  "I'll  put  on  my  cream  cloth." 

This  was  a  gown  which  Marjorie  had  originally 
bought  for  a  wedding,  which  had  suited  her  indubi- 
tably, but  which  she  had  never  been  known  to  wear 
since. 

"Yes,  and  the  beaver  hat  that  goes  with  it,"  sup- 
plemented Marion,  "trimmed  with  ostrich  plumes. 
She  will  be  well  dressed,  James,"  she  added,  calmly. 

"If  you  say  so,  my  dear,"  remarked  James,  "I 
haven't  a  doubt  about  it." 

Marion  looked  at  her  sister.  "It  would  make 
you  happier  to  go,  dear?"  she  asked. 

Marjorie  raised  her  eyes  and  returned  the  look 
without  speaking;  then,  half-timidly,  stretched  out 
her  hand. 

"Take  her,  James,"  said  Marion,  holding  the 
hand. 

"Eat  well  and  drink  well,  for  the  next  week," 
169 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

said  James,  "and  if  the  roses  have  come  back  by 
that  time,  we'll  think  about  it.  ...  Pass  the 
Cavendish  marmalade,  if  Marion  has  left  any." 


170 


CHAPTER  XVI 

JAMES  was  one  of  that  numerous  and  excellent 
class  which  "has"  its  Saturday  afternoons;  whose 
members  cease  to  be  commercial  machines  and  be- 
come human  beings,  with  social  duties  to  perform, 
human  passions  to  recognise,  personal  needs  and 
wants  to  supply,  for  one  half-day  in  the  week. 
Ever  since  he  was  a  boy  James  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  a  half-holiday  on  Saturday.  He  had  now 
reached  a  position  where  a  half -holiday— or  a  holi- 
day of  any  kind — was  a  matter  entirely  within  his 
own  controlj  but  it  suited  him  generally  to  remain 
faithful  to  Saturday;  and  so  a  Saturday  it  was  that 
he  nominated  for  Marjorie's  visit  to  her  husband. 
On  this  occasion,  however,  he  extended  the  prescrip- 
tive limits  of  his  weekly  leisure  by  adding  the  morn- 
ing. He  had  no  intention  to  make  a  third  at  the  in- 
terview;  all  he  set  himself  was  to  bring  his  charge  to 
the  place  of  meeting  in  as  sound  a  condition,  men- 

171 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

tally  and  physically,  to  fight  her  own  battle,  as  he 
had  it  in  him  to  do. 

Marjorie,  in  the  meantime,  had  faithfully  done 
her  best  to  obey  his  injunctions.  But  eating  and 
drinking  is  pathetically  little  a  matter  of  the  will, 
and  pathetically  much  a  matter  of  temperament  and 
external  conditions.  Still,  the  excitement  engen- 
dered by  the  prospect  of  her  visit  had  acted  bene- 
ficially on  her  spirits  and  roused  her  from  the 
lethargy  into  which  she  had  seemed  to  be  in  danger 
of  sinking.  If  the  "roses"  could  not  be  said  to 
have  returned  to  her  cheeks,  at  least  there  was  an 
underglow  in  her  general  air  which  it  had  previ- 
ously lacked,  and  when  she  came  down  on  the  morn- 
ing of  the  fateful  Saturday,  arrayed  in  the  cream 
cloth,  James  surveyed  her  appearance  without  dis- 
satisfaction. 

"But  can't  you  manage  something  different  about 
the  hair?"  he  suggested,  a  little  diffidently,  at  the 
conclusion  of  his  scrutiny,  "something  like  Marion 
has  it?" 

And,  indeed,  there  was  a  very  marked  contrast 
between  her  soft  stretch  of  fluffy  brown  hair, 
brushed  plainly  back,  and  the  smooth  coils  that  bil- 
lowed in  graceful  abundance  about  Marion's  head. 

172 


On  this  point,  however,  Marjorie  was  obdurate. 
"I've  always  worn  it  like  this,"  she  said,  simply; 
"I  can't  change  it  now.  Besides,  I  shall  have  my 
hat  on." 

This  was  the  cream  beaver  with  ostrich  plumes. 
It  was  donned  an  hour  or  two  later,  and  James  had 
no  longer  any  excuse  for  criticism.  Marjorie,  as 
she  had  promised  to  be,  was  at  her  best.  The 
simple,  retreating  figure  we  have  become  accus- 
tomed to  had  disappeared,  and  one  very  different 
stood  in  its  place.  Without  ostentation,  she  was 
quietly  conscious  of  herself  and  of  the  dignity  of 
her  sex,  delicately  elegant,  unassuming,  yet  perfect- 
ly assured.  Beneath  her  calm  exterior,  however,  she 
was  sheltering  considerable  mental  excitement,  a 
fact  which  James  recognised. 

"Give  me  your  hand,"  he  said. 

The  right  was  already  gloved,  so  she  held  out 
the  left,  and  for  a  moment  he  clasped  the  long,  thin 
fingers  in  his  palm. 

"Trembling,"  he  pronounced.  He  dropped  her 
hand.  "The  Carlton,  I  think,"  he  said,  "and 
Clicquot  '92." 

To  the  Carlton  they  went.  And  let  it  be  said  at 
once  that,  if  we  have  conveyed  the  impression  that 

173 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

Marjorie  would  find  herself  in  these  circumstances 
anything  in  the  nature  of  a  fish  out  of  water,  we 
have  completely  misled  our  readers.  It  was  never, 
with  her,  a  question  of  what  she  could  be,  but  of 
what  she  would.  As  she  preceded  James  to  their 
table,  she  was  more  at  her  ease  even  than  he,  who 
had  trodden  these  same  halls  many  a  time  and  oft. 
She  threaded  her  way  quietly  along,  carrying  her- 
self at  the  full  height  of  her  tall  figure,  breeding 
and  grace  in  every  movement.  Not  Marion  her- 
self could  have  excelled  her.  More  than  two  or 
three  pairs  of  eyes  were  turned  to  follow  her  as  she 
passed. 

"Nice-looking  woman  the  old  boy  has  with  him," 
said  one  carefully  groomed  young  gentleman  to  an 
equally  exquisite  companion  of  the  other  sex. 
"Wonder  what  he's  after?" 

Why  a  man  who  is  still  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
forty  must  necessarily  become  "old"  because  his 
figure  shows  a  tendency  to  run  away  with  him  is  a 
question  which  James,  who  had  overheard  the  re- 
mark, would  have  liked  to  have  had  satisfactorily 
answered. 

"Thought    so,"     commented     the     immaculate 
174. 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

youth,  out  of  the  profundity  of  his  wisdom,  when 
the  champagne  was  placed  on  James's  table. 

He  was  a  trifle  disappointed  to  find  that 
Marjorie  steadily  declined  to  drink  more  than  a 
single  glass,  in  spite  of  James's  pressure;  though 
the  action  of  the  latter,  in  repeatedly  urging  it  upon 
her,  was  one  which  the  wisdom  aforesaid  found 
ridiculously  easy  to  construe. 

After  lunch  they  sat  for  half  an  hour  in  the 
Palm  Court,  while  James  smoked  a  cigar,  which 
he  was  careful  to  take  from  his  own  case,  thereby 
saving  75  per  cent.,  and  possibly  securing  a  better 
article.  No  more  generous,  open-handed  creature 
than  James  breathed,  but  he  was  also  a  business 
man  and  he  disliked  waste.  Had  Marjorie  been 
masculine  and  a  smoker,  she  would  have  paid  the 
additional  75  per  cent,  and  then  probably  have 
thrown  away  three-quarters  of  the  cigar. 

James  was  not  satisfied  with  her  state.  He  could 
see  that  the  arm  which  raised  her  coffee-cup  was 
not  quite  steady.  He  would  have  been  far  better 
pleased  had  she  been  willing  to  draw  the  line  at 
lunch  a  little  less  rigorously.  Such  a  concession,  as 
he  touchingly  pointed  out  to  her  at  the  time,  would 
have  been  beneficial  to  both  of  them,  since  no  one 

175 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

knew  better  than  himself  that  the  extra  glasses 
which  her  abstemiousness  had  compelled  him  to 
drink  would  not  be  left  out  of  the  account  in  the 
subsequent  settlement  with  his  digestion.  To  dis- 
tract her  thoughts,  he  encouraged  her  to  talk  about 
their  neighbours  and  to  make  conjectures  as  to 
their  probable  relationships.  It  is  a  profitless  but 
entertaining  form  of  speculation,  which  who  has 
not  indulged  in? 

Near  them  were  seated  a  couple — of  opposite 
sex,  need  it  be  stated? — who  appeared  at  the  dis- 
tance of  a  few  yards  to  be  very  innocent  and  very 
amiable  and  very  young.  His  cheek  was  as  smooth 
as  a  schoolboy's,  and  her  eyes  were  as  round  as  a 
baby's.  Yet,  if  you  could  have  gone  quite  close  to 
them,  Marjorie,  you  would  have  noticed  that  the 
hair  of  each  was  tinged  with  grey;  and  if  they  had 
happened  to  look  up,  you  would  probably  have 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  both  had  a  working 
acquaintance  with  the  ways  of  the  world  they  lived 
in.  He  had  a  book  in  his  hand — evidently  a  new 
one — in  which,  at  the  moment  when  James  and 
Marjorie  first  noticed  them,  he  was  writing  in  pen- 
cil. She  was  watching  him  earnestly — too  earnestly 
for  it  to  be  quite  real.  He  gave  her  the 

176 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

book  when  he  had  finished  writing,  and  for 
some  minutes  they  looked  intently  at  one  another 
and  talked  of  very  momentous  things,  to  judge 
from  the  expression  of  their  countenances.  Then 
suddenly  she  snatched  the  paper  cover  from  the 
book  and  began  to  write  in  it  in  her  turn. 

"Now  she  is  writing,"  said  Marjorie.  "How 
funny  they  are!  I  wonder  what  it's  all  about?" 

"Playing  'consequences,'  probably,"  said  James, 
reclining  pleasantly  in  his  chair  and  emitting  a  thick 
cloud  of  smoke.  "About  their  mark,  I  should  say. 
They  look  as  if  they'd  got  out  of  the  nursery  by 
mistake.  She  isn't  sure  what  'she  said  to  him' ' 
(as  the  lady  hesitated) .  "Come,  Miss  Grave  Eyes, 
write  'You  really  mustn't'  and  have  done  with  it." 

James's  supposition  was  very  wide  of  the  mark, 
however.  The  book  is  the  British  Barbarians,  and 
he  has  just  written  her  name  in  it.  She  is  now 
hastily  committing  some  of  her  own  verses  to  the 
somewhat  flimsy  paper  of  the  loose  cover — she 
said  she  always  jotted  them  down  on  odd  scraps  in 
that  way.  (A  clean  sheet  of  foolscap  on  an  orderly 
desk  is  obviously  anathema  to  the  poetic  tempera- 
ment.) But  the  verses  are  certainly  not  without 
rhyme,  nor,  for  the  matter  of  that,  without  reason. 

177 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

Perhaps,  as  she  is  so  absorbed,  she  will  not  resent 
it  if  we  glance  over  her  shoulder  and  take  down 
the  first  two  stanzas : 

"  I  know  not  whence  he  came : 

I  only  know 
That  things  are  not  the  same ; 

Nor  gloom,  nor  glow, 
Nor  summer's  flowery  meads, 

Nor  winter's  snow. 

•*  I  know  not  why  he  came : 

I  only  know 
Life  holds  a  loftier  aim, 

Above,  below, 
The  whole  world  is  become 

Diviner  so." 

When  she  had  completed  her  task  she  handed 
the  cover  to  her  companion.  He  read  the  verses, 
made  a  few  polite  comments,  ventured  diffidently 
to  suggest  the  practical  difficulties  attending  a 
"loftier  aim  below,"  was  informed,  equally  politely, 
that  the  aimer  and  not  the  aim  was  "below," 
thought  better  of  an  impulse  to  inquire  if  the  same 
reading  applied  to  "above,"  then  carefully  folded 
the  paper  and  slipped  it  in  his  pocket — where  he 
found  it  a  fortnight  later,  the  next  time  he  put  on 
the  coat. 

"They  seem  to  be  getting  on  very  well,"  said 
178 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

Marjorie.  "I  wonder  if  they  are  married,  or  going 
to  be?" 

Yes,  Marjorie,  they  are  married,  but  not  to  one 
another;  and  if  they  were,  they  would  quarrel  in 
a  fortnight,  as  they  have  already  done  with  their 
present  partners. 

"Oh,  dear,  this  is  very  ridiculous,"  said  Mar- 
jorie, suddenly,  "all  this  guessing.  Do  you  suppose 
other  people  are  doing  the  same  thing  about  us?" 

The  small  distraction,  nevertheless,  had  done  her 
good.  She  was  more  like  herself  than  James  had 
seen  her  for  some  time.  To  be  herself,  however, 
was  not  enough;  she  must  be  above  herself,  or  be- 
low, if  the  task  that  lay  before  her  was  to  be  under- 
taken with  any  prospect  of  success.  He  determined 
to  subject  her  mental  attitude  to  rather  a  searching 
test. 

"Very  likely,"  he  said.  "I  heard  a  man,  as  we 
came  in,  say  he  thought  the  old  boy  had  got  hold 
of  a  nice-looking  woman." 

Marjorie  drew  in  her  breath.  For  a  moment 
the  inclination  to  be  shocked,  to  be  horrified,  gripped 
her.  James  saw  it.  Then,  instead,  "Ohl"  she  ex- 
claimed— real  indignation  in  her  voice — "you  are 
not  at  all  old.  I  think  you  look  very  nice,  James." 

179 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

"Well  done,"  said  James.  He  pressed  out  his 
cigar  in  the  ash-tray.  "Now  let  us  get  a  cab  and 

go." 

When  they  reached  Albany  Mansions,  they  were 
told  that  Villiers  was  out.  The  commissionnaire,  on 
being  asked  if  they  could  wait,  showed  them  into 
a  small  apartment  on  the  ground  floor,  barely  fur- 
nished with  three  hard  chairs  and  a  square  table — a 
room  which  he  was  accustomed  to  use  himself  in 
the  intervals  of  his  duties.  This  wait  was  unfor- 
tunate. Marjorie  sat  on  one  of  the  straight  chairs, 
her  hands  in  her  muff,  all  her  lately  found  spirit 
slowly  oozing  through  her  finger-tips.  James  tried 
hard  at  first  to  keep  the  conversation  flowing  upon 
the  easy  lines  of  the  Palm  Court.  But  the  environ- 
ment was  no  longer  benevolent;  no  dramas  were 
working  out  on  every  hand.  Marjorie  could  only 
see  the  heavy  drop-curtain  which  would  shortly  lift 
upon  the  second  act  of  her  own  drama.  She  could 
not  respond.  Even  the  effort  to  talk  at  all  was  con- 
siderable. After  a  time  James  realised  this.  He 
gave  up  the  attempt,  picked  up  a  slightly  crumpled 
copy  of  the  Daily  Mail  that  was  lying  on  the  table, 
and  instantly  became  imbued  with  the  idea  that  the 
world  was  coming  to  an  end. 

180 


They  had  been  waiting  nearly  half  an  hour, 
when  they  heard  a  hansom  draw  up  to  the  curb 
outside.  Immediately  afterwards  several  other 
slight  sounds  penetrated  to  the  little  room.  There 
was  a  slight  ripple  of  woman's  laughter,  and  a  sil- 
very voice  called  out,  "Don't  forget  the  parcels, 
Norman."  A  skirt  swept  past  the  door,  followed 
by  a  man's  footsteps,  and  then,  gradually,  silence. 

Marjorie  sat  perfectly  motionless,  though  her 
heart  was  beating  as  if  it  would  choke  her. 

After  a  lapse  of  a  few  seconds  the  door  was 
opened,  and  a  uniformed  head  and  shoulders  ap- 
peared in  the  aperture. 

"Mr  Villiers  has  gone  upstairs,  sir,"  said  the 
commissionnaire. 

James  took  Marjorie's  hand.  It  felt  chill  and 
lifeless  even  through  her  glove.  He  gave  it  a 
friendly  pressure. 

"Now,  run  up,  little  Marjorie,"  he  said:  "Num- 
ber eleven  on  the  second  floor.  Keep  your  heart 
high.  And  good  luck  to  you  I" 


181 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  last  thing  in  the  world  thatMarjorie  desired 
was  to  catch  her  husband  in  the  society  of  the  com- 
panion with  whom  she  had  heard  him  go  upstairs. 
She  disliked  scenes,  she  felt  herself  to  be  incapable 
of  rising  to  a  great  situation,  and — more  potent 
cause  than  either — she  was  acutely  anxious  to  avoid 
distressing  Norman.  So  she  crept  up  the  steps, 
listening  as  she  went.  Passing  the  first-floor  rooms, 
a  sudden  shout  of  laughter  brought  her  to  a  dead 
halt,  her  heart  thumping.  The  noise  subsided,  and 
she  went  on  again.  The  ascent  was  not  a  long  one, 
and  she  made  it  slowly,  yet  when  she  reached  the 
second  floor  she  was  panting  as  from  strong  exer- 
tion. A  sickly  weakness  came  over  her,  and  she 
was  obliged  to  lean  upon  the  banister  for  support. 
And  she  could  not  still  her  heart.  Yet,  even  then, 
she  did  not  regret  having  come.  She  had  strung 
herself  to  the  point  of  this  interview — to  make  this 

182 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

bid  for  her  life's  happiness — and  she  intended  to 
carry  it  through,  cost  her  what  it  might. 

After  a  few  moments  she  felt  equal  to  go  on. 
The  latch  of  No.  1 1  was  fixed — the  door  was  even 
slightly  ajar — so  she  pushed  it  open  and  went  in. 
She  found  herself  in  a  small  lobby  and  almost  in 
total  darkness.  For  some  seconds  she  could  hear 
nothing  but  the  beating  of  her  own  heart.  After- 
wards several  slight  sounds  successively  reached  her 
ears — the  creak  of  a  chair,  a  rustle  of  papers,  a 
low  cough.  Then  she  realised  with  a  deep  thank- 
fulness, a  deep  joy,  overwhelming  every  other  feel- 
ing, that  only  a  thin  door  now  separated  her  from 
the  man  who,  for  the  last  five  weeks,  had  scarcely 
been  absent  from  her  thoughts  for  a  single  moment, 
day  or  night. 

Very  gently  she  turned  the  handle  of  the  door 
and  went  inside.  Norman  was  seated  at  a  table 
with  his  back  to  her.  He  was  not  writing,  though 
his  papers  were  spread  out  in  front  of  him.  He 
was  leaning  back  in  his  chair  with  a  small  book  in 
his  hands,  of  which  he  was  quickly,  almost  angrily, 
turning  the  leaves.  Marjorie  knew  the  book,  and 
she  knew  the  state  of  mind  that  called  it  into  use. 
How  often  had  she  not  seen  him  sitting  in  precisely 

183 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

the  same  attitude,  occupied  in  precisely  the  same 
way? — his  vigorous  brain,  teeming  with  unwritten 
stores,  held  in  temporary  and  galling  bondage  by 
a  single  elusive  word. 

He  heard  her  step,  and  mistook  it.  "Rosa- 
mond," he  said,  still  twirling  the  leaves  of  the 
synonym  dictionary,  "what  is  the  word  which  sug- 
gests a  tone  of  command,  but  gives  some  idea  of 
injustice  or  harshness?  Not  'arbitrary,'  and  not 
'arrogant,*  and  not  'imperative'  —  something 
quicker,  sharper;  I've  used  it  often." 

"I  think  it's  'peremptory'  you  mean,  Norman," 
said  Marjorie,  gently. 

Norman  started — then  slowly  rose  from  his  seat 
and  turned  to  face  her.  It  was  characteristic  of 
him  that,  before  speaking,  he  bent  down  and  made 
a  note  of  the  word. 

"I  am  sorry  you  have  done  this,  Marjorie,"  he 
said. 

He  noticed  the  change  in  her  appearance,  and  his 
first  feeling  was  one  of  unreasoning  gratification; 
to  be  followed  almost  immediately  by  acute  regret, 
as  he  realised  its  purpose.  For,  in  spite  of  all  her 
fine  feathers,  he  saw  the  Marjorie  he  had  known — 
tender,  retreating,  pure-souled,  loving,  loyal,  cap- 

184 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

able  of  opening  and  expanding  among  things  lovely 
and  of  good  report,  but  ready  to  shrink  into  tearful 
seclusion  before  a  single  harsh  word  or  rough 
phrase  or  untimely  jest.  And  he  saw,  besides,  the 
brave  determination  to  hide  unhideable  nature,  and 
to  become  such  as  she  thought  he  would  wish. 
Marjorie  could  be  nothing  but  herself.  She  had 
been  herself  at  the  Carlton — in  that  environment 
she  had  dilated ;  she  was  herself  now,  but  drooping, 
overstrained,  beneath  her  resolute  fight  to  be  other- 
wise. The  sight  of  her  went  to  Norman's  heart. 

Something  of  this  showed  in  his  face.  The  look 
of  distress  that  came  into  it  was  as  fraught  with 
disheartening  meaning  to  poor  Marjorie  as  a 
judge's  severest  frown  to  a  prisoner  in  the  dock. 
All  James's  careful  measures,  all  her  own  heroic 
resolutions,  had  failed  at  the  first  moment  they 
were  put  upon  trial.  And  beneath  the  bitter  dis- 
appointment that  the  knowledge  carried  with  it  her 
fortitude  gave  way.  Tears  started  to  her  eyes,  and 
the  faint  sickliness  again  oppressed  her.  She 
swayed  slightly  and  laid  a  hand  heavily  upon  a 
table  near  her. 

"You  are  not  well.  You  are  ill,"  cried  Norman, 
sudden  anxiety  in  his  voice.  He  crossed  the  space 

185 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

between  them,  and  supported  her,  very  gently,  to  a 
low  chair  near  a  window.  Then  he  opened  the 
casement  and  let  the  cold  breeze  play  upon  her. 
"It  is  too  much  for  you.  You  should  not  have 
come,  dear." 

The  last  word  was  not  uttered  mechanically,  but 
quite  earnestly.  It  dropped  upon  Marjorie's  ears 
like  a  note  of  melody. 

But  she  gave  no  sign  that  she  had  noticed  it.  "It 
is  very  stupid  of  me,"  she  said.  "I  can't  under- 
stand it.  I  shall  be  all  right  in  a  minute  or  two." 

She  closed  her  eyes,  and  Norman  stood  watching 
her.  Presently  a  slight  colour  returned  to  her 
cheeks,  and  she  lifted  her  lids  again.  But  she  did 
not  immediately  speak.  Without  appearing  to  ob- 
serve him,  she  was  conscious,  on  her  side  also,  of 
a  change  in  her  husband  since  she  had  seen  him 
last.  His  eyes  were  duller  and  his  skin  more 
opaque,  and  there  was  an  indefinite  suggestion  of 
heaviness  in  his  air  which  had  not  been  there  be- 
fore. Quite  naturally  her  eyes  sought  his,  eyes 
which,  without  any  design  to  work  upon  his  feel- 
ings, but  because  she  could  not  help  it,  were  filled 
with  all  the  pent-up  wretchedness  of  the  last  five 
weeks. 

186 


MR  AND  MRS  riLLIERS 

"Norman,"  she  said,  simply,  "I  can't  do  with- 
out you.  Why  have  you  left  me?" 

Norman  was  half  leaning,  half  sitting  upon  the 
table,  staring  into  the  fire.  "We  won't  talk  of  that, 
Marjorie,"  he  said,  "it  will  only  distress  you." 

"Oh,  but  you  must  let  me  talk  of  it,"  she  cried, 
almost  piteously.  "That  is  why  I  have  come." 

Villiers  looked  at  her  eager,  distressful  face,  and 
then  looked  away  again.  "I  think  you  know  quite 
well  why  I  left  you,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  she  replied.  She  bent  her  eyes  to  her 
muff,  and  a  slight  flush  mounted  to  her  cheeks.  "I 
didn't  understand." 

"And  that  is  the  whole  kernel  of  it,"  said  he, 
still  looking  into  the  fire.  "It  is  because  you  didn't 
understand,  and  never  could  understand,  because 
you  are  too — what  shall  I  call  it? — too  immaculate 
ever  to  understand,  that  we  cannot  unite." 

Marjorie  paused.  The  next  thing  was  very 
hard  to  say.  But  she  made  a  struggle  and  said  it, 
hardly  above  her  breath:  "It  would  be  different 
now." 

"It  would  have  been  different  at  any  time,  had 
you  known.  I  don't  doubt  that,  Marjorie,"  said 
Norman. 

187 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

She  looked  up  with  quick  hope;  but  he  stopped 
her  before  she  could  speak,  suddenly  turning  his 
glance  full  upon  hers. 

"Oh,  don't  you  realise,"  he  cried,  "don't  you 
know  me  well  enough  to  be  sure  that  it  could  give 
me  no  gratification  to  martyr  you?  Or  that  I  could 
do  otherwise  than  loathe  myself  if  I  did?" 

"But — but — I  am  your  wife,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know  that  I  am  invested  by  Church 
and  State  with  plenary  powers  to  immolate  you, 
and  that  you  are  a  willing  victim.  If  I  had  been  a 
savage,  we  might  have  continued  to  live  together. 
I  don't  say  you  would  have  been  happy." 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  say?"  cried  Marjorie, 
helplessly.  "I  will  be  all  I  can,  dear." 

"I  know,  I  know.  It  is  not  a  matter  of  your 
own  volition.  Things  are  what  they  are,  and 
nothing  can  alter  them.  Apart  from  everything 
else,  do  you  think  it  would  be  right  for  us  to  live 
together  in  such  conditions?" 

"Yes,"  said  Marjorie,  without  hesitation;  "we 
are  married." 

"But  don't  you  see,  can't  you  realise,  that  rela- 
tions such  as  those  are  not  only  physically  vapid, 
but  morally  wrong,  unless  entirely  reciprocal?" 

188 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Marjorie,  rather  piteously. 
"I  only  know  I  want  you." 

"You  want  me — and  yet — "  He  pulled  a  chair 
from  under  the  table  and  sat  upon  it.  "What  a 
curious,  complex  nature  yours  is,  Marjorie !  I  wish 
I  could  understand  it.  Now,  supposing — I  am 
putting  a  hypothetical  case — supposing  I  were  to 
live  next  door,  and  came  in  to  see  you  and  talk  to 
you,  say,  two  or  three  times  a  week,  would  that 
do?" 

"No,"  said  Marjorie;  "I  should  want  to  know 
you  were  there" 

"But  I  should  be  there — next  door — accessible 
at  any  time  and  willing  to  help  you." 

Marjorie  shook  her  head.  "It  wouldn't  be  the 
same  thing,"  she  said.  "I  should  want  to  feel  I 
had  you  in  the  house,  to  rely  upon  and  make  me 
feel  safe." 

"Well,  we  will  imagine  another  case,"  said  Nor- 
man. "Say  a  great  number  of  people  lived  together 
in  a  large  house,  you  and  I  among  others.  We 
should  meet  every  day  in  the  ordinary  course,  at 
meals  and  so  on;  and  I  should  always  be  available 
for  advice,  whenever  you  thought  it  worth  asking 
for." 

189 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

"No,  no,"  cried  Marjorie;  "I  want  to  have  a 
right  upon  you  that  no  one  else  has." 

"To  my  support?"  said  Norman.  "You  have 
that." 

"No,  no,  no!"  Marjorie  was  almost  impatient 
with  him.  "Something  much  more  personal  than 
that.  Can't  you  understand?" 

"I  don't  think  you  understand  yourself,  Mar- 
jorie," said  Norman,  quietly.  "I  can  see  you  are 
conscious  of  a  desire  to  stand  in  some  peculiar  re- 
lationship to  me.  What  relationship,  I  don't  think 
you  know.  Certainly  not  that  usually  involved  by 
marriage.  Do  you  mean  what  people  call  a  'kin- 
ship of  souls'?  But  that  doesn't  require  personal 
contact  or  even  propinquity." 

"Oh,  how  cold  you  are!"  cried  Marjorie.  At 
last  she  found  herself,  and  her  words  came  quickly 
on  a  flood  of  emotion.  "Besides  all  that,  besides 
having  you  near  me  to  protect  and  advise  and  be 
good  to  me,  I  should  want  you  sometimes  to  talk 
to  me  as  you  used  to  talk,  and — and — "  Suddenly 
she  slipped  from  her  seat  and  knelt  before  him, 
spreading  her  arms  upon  him:  " — and  I  should 
want  you  sometimes  to — to — "  she  bent  her  head 
" — to  kiss  me,  Norman." 

190 


MR  AND  MRS  F1LLIERS 

He  strained  away  from  her  as  far  as  the  chair 
would  permit.  "You  don't  know  what  you  are 
doing,"  he  cried,  hoarsely.  He  was  very  deeply 
moved.  "Get  up!  Get  up!" 

"I  do,"  said  Marjorie,  passionately.  "I  do  know, 
and  I  don't  care."  She  snatched  his  hand  and 
pressed  it  to  her  hot  cheek,  and  the  tears  fell  upon 
it  and  bedewed  it.  "You  are  mine — mine." 

He  lifted  her  very  gently  and  placed  her  back 
in  the  chair,  then  turned  and  strode  several  times 
up  and  down  the  room — a  habit  of  his  when  he 
was  strongly  stirred.  After  a  time  he  came  to  a 
standstill  near  her,  and  looked  down  upon  her  with 
an  expression  in  which  distress  and  esteem  were 
mingled  with  an  emotion  deeper  than  either. 

"What  can  I  say  to  you,  Marjorie?"  he  said. 
"Beside  you,  I  am  only  a  brute  beast,  not  worthy 
to  bend  down  and  kiss  the  hem  of  your  dress.  At 
this  moment  I  am  drawn  to  you  almost  irresistibly. 
Yet,  even  if — "  he  hesitated  " — even  if  there  were 
nothing  else,  and  we  were  to  resume  our  old  life, 
I  know  that  in  a  few  months — a  few  weeks,  per- 
haps— it  would  all  have  to  be  gone  through  again. 
We  cannot  change — we  who  are  made  as  I  am. 
Don't  I  know  that?  People  sometimes  wonder 

191 


MR  AND  MRS   VILL1ERS 

what  they  would  ask  if  they  were  to  be  granted  a 
wish.  If  I  could  have  one.  wish  gratified,  I  should 
choose  to  be  deprived  of  all — " 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Marjorie,  hastily. 
"You  needn't  explain." 

The  words  slipped  from  her  lips  without 
thought.  The  next  moment  she  could  have  bitten 
her  tongue  out. 

"Believe  me,"  said  Norman,  quietly,  "I  was  go- 
ing to  choose  a  phrase  which  should  have  trenched 
the  very  least  upon  your  delicacy." 

"Oh,  what  have  I  said?  I  didn't  mean  that." 
Marjorie's  tears  began  to  flow  afresh.  "Oh,  why 
can't  you  be  cruel  to  me?"  she  wailed  piteously. 
"Why  can't  you  beat  me,  anything,  make  me  hate 
you?  Then  life  might  be  bearable  without  you. 
But,  all  the  time,  you  are  so  just  and  so  gentle,  and 
I  know  it  and  I  love  you  for  it."  She  bowed  her 
face  into  her  open  palms,  and  he  could  see  her 
slight  shoulders  moving  silently. 

It  was  more  than  he  could  bear.  He  dropped 
on  one  knee  before  her,  quietly  removed  the  two 
pathetically  slender  hands  and  pressed  them  be- 
tween his  own. 

"Don't  talk  like  that,  dear,"  he  said.  "You  live 
192 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

so  near  heaven  yourself  that  you  can't  realise  what 
I  am.  If  you  knew  how  I  have  lived  during  these 
weeks  since  I  left  you,  you  would  understand  that 
I  am  a  man  not  to  be  loved  by  one  such  as  you, 
but  to  be  despised  and  detested." 

She  freed  one  hand  and  frantically  dashed  the 
tears  from  her  face.  "That  is  my  fault,"  she  cried, 
hotly,  "not  yours.  That  is  my  sin,  not  yours." 

"Hush,  hush!"  said  Norman.  "You  couldn't 
sin  if  you  tried." 

"It  isn't  any  good  trying  to  make  me  believe 
that,"  she  answered,  still  wiping  the  tears.  "The 
whole  of  my  life,  since  I  married  you,  has  been  a 
sin — a  sin  of  selfishness  and  thoughtlessness." 

"No,"  said  Norman,  gravely,  "you  must  not 
think  that.  We  were  oil  and  water  put  into  a 
bottle  together,  and  we  didn't  mix,  and  never  could 
mix." 

"I  didn't  try  to  mix." 

"You  did  all  you  could,"  said  Norman. 

"Yes,  I  was  ready  to  be  martyred,  with  a  bad 
grace.  Oh,  I  know.  And  all  those  years  you  suf- 
fered, and  didn't  even  scold  me." 

Norman  rose  to  his  feet  with  a  light,  good- 
humoured  laugh.  "Why,  I  might  as  well  have 

193 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

scolded  the  moon,"  he  said,  brightly,  "because  it 
didn't  shine  red." 

He  went  over  to  the  writing-table  for  a  cigarette. 
When  he  returned  to  the  mantelpiece  to  find  a 
match,  Marjorie  had  risen  too.  Her  hands  were 
clasped  low  down  in  front  of  her,  and  her  face  was 
turned  up  to  his,  an  expression  of  the  utmost  stress 
in  her  eyes. 

"I  can't  go  on  living  without  you,"  she  said.  "It 
would  break  my  heart.  I  haven't  been  a  good  wife. 
Perhaps  you  are  right — perhaps  I  can't  be.  Nor- 
man, I  won't  mind" — her  voice  suddenly  dropped 
— "whom  you  know." 

Norman  stopped  in  the  act  of  lighting  his  cig- 
arette and  turned  his  eyes  upon  her.  "Marjorie  I" 

"Yes,  I  mean  that,"  said  Marjorie,  quietly.  "As 
long  as  you  are  justified." 

Norman  threw  the  match  into  the  fire.  The 
cigarette  was  not  lighted,  and  he  didn't  light  it. 
This  was  a  possibility,  it  must  be  said  to  his  credit, 
which  had  not  even  occurred  to  him  hitherto.  Now 
that  it  was  brought  to  his  mind,  and  by  Marjorie 
herself,  he  could  not  fail  to  perceive  its  subtle  al- 
lurement. It  flashed  across  him  that  Rosamond 
might  probably  be  induced  to  agree ;  indeed,  it  was 

191 


MR  AND   MRS   FILLIERS 

scarcely  an  expansion  of  the  terms  she  herself  had 
originally  laid  down  for  their  intercourse.  His 
present  life,  he  was  beginning  to  see  more  clearly 
every  day,  was  good  neither  for  himself  nor  his 
work.  His  mental  stamina  was  gradually  dete- 
riorating under  the  perfumed  influence  of  the  too 
gracious  daughter  of  Uranus  and  the  sea.  In  the 
quiet,  unexciting  atmosphere  surrounding  Marjorie 
he  knew  he  would  become  capable  of  better  and 
more  work,  with  advantage  to  his  general  welfare. 
If  he  had  been  an  immoral  man  he  would  have  ac- 
cepted her  offer.  But,  in  spite  of  its  fair  promise, 
its  innocuous  suggestion,  there  was  that  at  the  back 
of  him  which  fiercely  rejected  such  a  solution  of  his 
present  difficulties.  He  could  not  have  argued  the 
point ;  he  could  only  see  it — feel  it. 

"No,"  he  said,    at   last,    firmly,    "the   position 
would  be  outrageous,  unthinkable." 

"Why?"  said  Marjorie.    "I  shouldn't  know.     I 
shouldn't  ask.    And  you  would  be  happy." 

"Would  you?"  said  Norman. 

She  hesitated.     "Much  more  than  I  am  now," 
she  said. 

"But  can't  you  see,"  he  said,  "it  would  be  im- 
moral— grossly?" 

195 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

The  eyes  that  were  looking  at  him  widened  just 
perceptibly. 

"Oh,  I  know,"  he  said;  "you  think  I  have  a 
poor  enough  title  to  talk  upon  that  subject.  But, 
all  the  same,  there  is  a  difference,  Marjorie.  I 
can't  explain  it.  I  know  it.  A  double  life — espe- 
cially one  accepted  and  acknowledged — is  a  contra- 
vention of  every  code,  written  and  unwritten.  And 
at  least,  as  the  position  is,  you  are  not  involved  by 
it,  your  pure  soul  is  free  from  taint." 

Marjorie  said  nothing  for  a  time.  She  bent  her 
eyes  upon  the  fire.  Then  she  looked  up.  "I  can't 
argue  with  you,  Norman.  You  know  I  never 
could.  But  I  think,  perhaps,  it  might  save  you 
from  worse." 

"That  is  my  look-out,"  said  Norman.  "You 
must  not  stain  yourself  to  rescue  me.  You  can 
feel,"  he  added,  gently,  "that  this  would  be  to  stain 
yourself?" 

Once  more  Marjorie  hesitated.  "Yes,"  she  said, 
slowly,  in  a  low  voice;  and  then  again,  after  another 
pause,  "yes." 

"And  yet,"  said  Norman,  "it  is  less  repugnant 
to  you  than  the  ordinary  relations  of  wifehood." 

Marjorie  turned  her  eyes  upon  him  with  such  a 
196 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

look  as  a  wounded  deer  might  give  which  has  re- 
ceived a  wanton  lash  from  a  whip. 

"Forgive  me,"  said  Norman  at  once,  humbly: 
"it  was  thoughtless." 

"But  not  any  more  than  these  years  of  omission 
have  stained  me,"  Marjorie  went  on,  quickly.  "I 
owe  some  return  for  that.  And  I  accept  it  will- 
ingly, for  your  sake  and  mine.  To  save  you  from 
what  you  said  in  your  letter,  from  'drifting  utterly,' 
for  your  good,  body  and  soul,  and  because  I  love 
you." 

Norman  made  no  movement.  He  had  leant  his 
elbows  on  the  mantelpiece  and  pressed  his  hands  to 
his  head.  To  Marjorie,  who  had  bowed  herself  to 
so  extreme  a  point  of  wifely  humility  and  generos- 
ity, it  seemed  hardly  credible  that  he  could  decline 
the  proffered  gift. 

Slowly  she  drew  herself  up  and  looked  deeply  at 
his  averted  face,  with  an  expression  of  mingled  pain 
and  pride.  "Norman,  you  can't  refuse?  You 
can't—" 

She  came  to  an  abrupt  silence.  The  outer  door 
had  opened  and  closed,  there  was  a  swish  of  skirts 
in  the  lobby,  and  she  heard  the  same  silvery  laugh 
that  had  reached  her  ears  below.  Norman  sprang 

197 


MR  AND  MBS   VILLIEES 

towards  the  door.  He  was  too  late.  It  opened, 
and  Rosamond  entered,  in  the  freshest  of  gowns 
and  happiest  of  moods. 

She  had  a  slim  morocco-covered  volume  in  her 
hand,  and  she  was  talking  as  she  came  in.  "Here's 
the  Sigea,  Norman.  She's  terribly  wicked,  but 
vastly  exciting.  You  must — "  She  stopped  as  she 
caught  sight  of  Marjorie. 

There  was  an  interval  of  strained  silence.  Nor- 
man went  up  to  her,  took  the  book  from  her  hand, 
and  locked  it  in  a  cupboard.  Then  he  turned 
around. 

"Rosamond,  this  is  my  wife,"  he  said. 


198 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

INSTINCTIVELY  Marjorie  had  drawn  slightly 
away  from  Rosamond.  Which  was  rather  inconsist- 
ent of  you,  little  Marjorie.  You  are  ready  to  fall 
into  the  arms  of  the  man ;  from  the  woman — your 
sister,  the  weaker  vessel — you  draw  aside.  You  are 
fond  of  declaiming  against  what  you  call  "man's 
law,"  which  has  an  easier  judgment  for  erring  man 
than  erring  woman ;  it  is  you,  the  women,  who  make 
the  law,  and  see  that  it  is  fulfilled. 

Seeing  Marjorie's  movement,  a  natural  instinct 
of  protection  took  Norman  to  Rosamond's  side. 

"I  can't  talk  to  you  now,  Rosamond,"  he  said, 
gently.  "You  are  not  in  a  hurry,  are  you?" 

"Oh,  dear,  no,"  said  Rosamond,  lightly.  "I'd 
no  idea  there  was  anyone  with  you.  So  sorry. 
You'll  come  across,  won't  you?" 

She  turned  with  a  soft  rustle,  smiling  brightly, 
and  would  have  left  the  room,  had  not  Marjorie 
unexpectedly  intervened. 

199 


"Please  don't  go,"  she  said.  "I  would  rather 
you  stayed.  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

She  could  hardly  have  said  why  she  did  it.  It 
was  an  impulse.  Something  in  the  easy  familiarity 
of  Norman's  tone  and  of  Rosamond's  response — 
its  suggestion  of  camaraderie — impressed  her  sud- 
denly with  the  conviction  that  unless  she  could  en- 
list this  woman's  co-operation  she  would  fail  in  her 
object. 

Rosamond  stopped  quickly,  in  surprise.  "To 
me?"  she  said. 

"Marjorie,  you  understand?"  said  Norman, 
hastily,  a  note  of  anxiety  in  his  voice. 

"Yes,"  said  Marjorie,  quietly,  "I  understand.  I 
know.  That  is  why  I  want — you  didn't  properly 
introduce  us,"  she  added,  with  a  nervous  laugh. 

"Don't  let  us  have  a  scene,"  said  Norman,  "it 
can  do  no  good." 

She  looked  at  him  with  rather  surprised  re- 
proach. "Oh,  Norman,  did  I  ever  make  a  scene?" 
Then,  quickly  turning  to  Rosamond,  "Please,  what 
can  I  call  you  ?"  she  said. 

Rosamond  seemed  to  be  slightly  tickled.  "I 
have  sometimes  wondered,"  she  said.  "My  name 
is  Rosamond  Hope." 

200 


MB  AND  MRS  VILLIERS 

Marjorie  looked  puzzled.  "I  seem  to  have 
heard  it  before,"  said  she.  "I  wonder  where?" 
She  paused  and  reflected.  "I  can't  think,"  she 
said,  finally. 

"Perhaps  Marion  could  tell  you,"  said  Norman. 

"Marion?"  Marjorie  repeated  the  name  slowly. 
"Oh,  yes,"  she  cried,  suddenly,  "I  remember.  You 
write,"  she  said  to  Rosamond. 

"I  babble  about  dress,"  said  Rosamond,  smiling. 
"I  don't  think  Norman  would  call  it  writing.  The 
other  day,  in  fact,  he  was  decidedly  scathing  on 
the  subject.  Weren't  you,  Norman?" 

"We  discussed  a  few  peculiarities  of  style,"  said 
Norman,  with  a  laugh. 

But  the  laugh  was  unnatural.  The  whole  situa- 
tion, indeed,  was  strained  and  difficult  to  keep  up. 
Norman  searched  his  brain  desperately  for  some 
means  of  ending  it.  Then  suddenly  Marjorie  broke 
through  the  ice. 

"How  lovely  you  are !"  she  said,  gravely,  look- 
ing at  Rosamond.  "I  don't  wonder  Norman  is 
fond  of  you." 

Rosamond  blushed  with  pleasure  and  embarrass- 
ment. A  compliment  from  a  woman  is  worth  ten 
from  a  man — especially  from  a  woman  standing  in 

201 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

such  a  relation  as  Marjorie.  No  one  knew  that 
better  than  Rosamond. 

"If  I  were  an  artist,"  continued  Marjorie,  almost 
enthusiastically,  "I  should  want  to  paint  you." 

She  sat  down  beside  the  table.  A  quick  rush  of 
spontaneity  made  Rosamond  pull  a  chair  from 
under  it  and  do  the  same.  She  put  her  elbows  on 
the  cloth  and  looked  intently  at  Marjorie  across  a 
corner. 

"Mrs.  Villiers,  why  don't  you  hate  me?"  she 
said. 

"Why  should  I?"  said  Marjorie.  "You  are 
wiser  than  I  am.  Why  should  I  hate  you  for  that?" 

"But  we — we  have  made  you  unhappy." 

"I  have  made  myself  unhappy,"  said  Marjorie. 

Rosamond  said  nothing  for  a  moment  or  two. 
Possibly  it  had  sometimes  occurred  to  her  that,  by 
some  such  accident  as  had  actually  happened,  she 
would  eventually  meet  Norman's  wife;  possibly  she 
had  pictured  in  her  mind  what  such  an  interview 
would  be  like.  Never,  never  had  her  imagination 
painted  such  a  scene  as  this.  Never  had  she  sup- 
posed that  she  would  look  into  a  pair  of  quiet  eyes 
and  become  conscious  of  herself  and  her  shortcom- 
ings as  at  no  time  before,  would  listen  to  a  gentle 

2C3 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

voice,  whose  unreproaching  sadness  would  beat  into 
her  heart  and  move  her  to  a  deep  gush  of  self- 
reproof. 

"I  wish  I  had  known  you  before,"  she  said,  sud- 
denly. 

Marjorie  widened  her  eyes  in  that  almost  child- 
like way  of  hers  when  anything  puzzled  her. 
"Why?"  she  said. 

"Because  it  might  have  been  different,"  said 
Rosamond.  "Oh,  what  a  muddling  place  this 
world  is!  Norman,  what  can  we  do?" 

Norman  was  standing  by  the  fireplace.  "I  don't 
think  I  quite  understand  what  you  mean,"  he  said. 
"We  can  do  nothing.  We  can't  put  back  the  hands 
of  the  clock.  The  die  has  been  cast  and  we  must 
abide  by  it,  for  good  or  ill." 

And  could  any  of  the  three  honestly  have  said 
that  it  was  for  good?  Marjorie's  heart  was  break- 
ing; Norman,  deep  in  his  inner  self,  was  conscious 
that  the  life  he  was  leading  was  inimical  to  all  that 
was  best  in  him ;  even  Rosamond,  now  that  she  had 
met  Marjorie,  felt  the  stinging  stab  of  remorse. 

Yet,  such  is  the  frailty  of  human  nature,  that 
Norman,  gripped  by  sudden  after-thought,  added 
hastily:  "You  couldn't  part  now,  Rosamond?" 

203 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Rosamond.  "Oh,  no,  no!" 
she  burst  out.  She  looked  almost  beseechingly  at 
Marjorie.  "Mrs  Villiers,  I  couldn't,  I  couldn't. 
Why  have  you  come  like  this?"  she  went  on,  hur- 
riedly. "If  you  had  been  vicious,  scathing,  I 
wouldn't  have  minded.  I  would  have  defied  you. 
But  you  are  kind — and  you  are  unhappy.  You 
make  me  feel  as  if  such  a  wicked  person  as  I  must 
be,  should  never  have  been  allowed  to  be  born." 

"You  mustn't  speak  like  that,"  said  Norman, 
quickly.  "The  only  blame  is  mine." 

She  threw  him  a  quick  glance  of  gratitude.  "I 
knew  you  would  say  that,"  she  said.  "But  I've 
lost  any  illusion  I  may  have  had  upon  that  point; 
it's  not  yours,  it's  mine." 

"It  is  mine,"  said  Marjorie,  quietly.  Rosa- 
mond's evident  sincerity  appealed  to  her  strongly, 
as  anything  true  always  did,  however  she  might 
personally  be  affected.  "I  don't  deceive  myself, 
Miss  Hope,  any  more  than  you  say  you  do  not.  1 
was  saying  something  to  Norman  when  you  came 
in  which  I  don't  want  to  unsay  now  that  I've  met 
you.  Perhaps,"  she  added,  giving  Rosamond  a 
glance  of  generous  acknowledgment,  "if  I  hadn't 
said  it  before,  I  should  now.  Will  you  try  to 

204 


MR  AND  MRS  FILLIERS 

understand  me  with  very  little  explanation?  1 
don't  want  to  part  you  altogether." 

Rosamond  looked  at  her  a  long  time  without 
speaking.  "What  do  you  mean  by  'altogether'?" 
she  said  at  last,  in  low,  rather  tense  tones. 

Marjorie  lifted  her  eyes  with  such  a  pathetic  ap- 
peal for  understanding  that  Rosamond  would  not 
press  her. 

"I  think — I  think  I  understand,"  she  said. 

Again  Marjorie  said  nothing. 

"Have  you  thought  what  that  would  mean?" 
asked  Rosamond,  very  earnestly. 

"Yes,"  replied  Marjorie,  quite  firmly,  but  in  a 
low  voice,  "and  for  Norman's  sake  and  mine — 
even — even  for  yours — I  will  agree." 

At  the  first  blush  it  strikes  the  mind  as  some- 
what of  a  curious  discrepancy  that  the  essential  re- 
pugnance of  this  proposal,  so  fair  and  reasonable 
on  the  surface,  should  at  once  have  been  discernible 
by  both  Norman  and  Rosamond,  and  yet  not  by 
Marjorie.  Her  very  innocence,  indeed,  concealed 
it  from  her. 

Rosamond  still  kept  her  eyes  fixed  gravely  upon 
her.  "Do  you  think  such  a  position  would  be  bear- 

205 


MR  AND   MRS   VILLIEES 

able  for  either  of  us?"  she  said,  "particularly  for 
you?" 

"Why  for  me?"  said  Marjorie,  rather  sharply. 
This  repeated  suggestion  of  an  inability  to  appreci- 
ate her  own  purpose  as  it  affected  herself,  coming 
first  from  Norman  and  then  from  Rosamond,  was 
humiliating  and  irritating.  A  call  for  self-assertion 
took  sudden  hold  upon  her.  "Why  should  I 
mind?"  she  went  on,  quickly,  almost  in  the  tone  of 
a  fretful  child.  "What  should  I  lose?  I  always 
thought  it  was  the  worst  part  of  being  married." 

Rosamond  gasped.  "Part  of  being  married!" 
she  said. 

Marjorie  saw  Norman  smile  involuntarily.  He 
was  not  smiling  at  her,  but  at  Rosamond's  astonish- 
ment His  wife's  peculiar  outlook  had  so  long  been 
a  commonplace  to  him  that  her  quaint  expressions 
had  lost  their  piquancy.  If  we  should  be  less 
courteous  and  feel  inclined  to  laugh  at  our  little 
Marjorie,  it  might  not  be  amiss  to  consider  how 
far  she  was  singular,  to  reflect  to  what  extent  Nor- 
man's "cumulated  refinement"  has  tended  to  ob- 
scure the  real  nature  of  marriage.  How  many 
women  not  only  go  to  the  altar,  but  continue  in  a 
greater  or  less  degree  to  the  end  of  their  days,  under 

206 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

the  impression  that  the  essential  is  a  religious  or 
quasi-religious  ceremony,  accompanied  by  such  dis- 
play of  merriment  and  jubilation  as  means  and  in- 
clination may  dictate,  and  that  everything  else  is 
incidental  and  subordinate,  including  the  rather  flut- 
tering contingency  of  the  resolution  of  private 
doubts  upon  a  subject  which  has  hitherto  afforded 
some  speculative  interest!  Among  other  "parts" 
may  be  cited,  the  having  a  house  of  your  own,  the 
furnishing  of  it,  the  being  able  to  call  yourself 
"Mrs"  and  wear  a  plain  gold  hoop,  and  the  oppor- 
tunity of  spending  more  time  than  would  otherwise 
be  considered  quite  nice  in  the  society  of  a  man  who 
is  agreeable  to  you. 

Rosamond  recovered  from  her  astonishment  and 
suddenly  laughed  brightly.  "And  I  suppose  the 
next  worst  would  be  the  remembrance  of  the 
wedding-cake?"  said  she. 

It  was  spoken  with  the  utmost  frankness.  But 
there  is  nothing  much  more  unpleasant  than  to  feel 
you  are  being  made  fun  of,  however  good-humour- 
edly.  Marjorie  had  that  mortifying  consciousness 
which  comes  from  the  conviction  that  you  have  been 
tacitly  relegated  to  an  inferior  plane  in  the  con- 
versation. It  aroused  all  the  latent  fighting  quali- 

207 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

ties  she  had  in  her.  Searching  her  brain  for  a 
means  of  defence,  a  thought  suddenly  flashed 
across  it.  She  rose  from  her  seat  quietly,  but  with 
that  unaggressive  dignity  which  no  one  knew  bet- 
ter how  to  command,  and  took  a  step  towards 
Norman. 

"What  is  that  book  you  locked  away?"  she  de- 
manded. 

"Nothing  you  would  understand,  Marjorie,"  he 
said,  gently. 

The  light  dismissal  of  her  request  only  made  her 
the  more  determined.  Furthermore,  it  clothed  the 
book  in  her  overwrought  mind  with  disproportion- 
ate importance,  outside  her  original  intention  in 
seeking  it.  It  became  the  "open  sesame"  to  her 
happiness.  She  felt  that  if  she  could  prove  she  was 
as  little  afraid  of  it  as  her  rival,  she  could  get  her 
husband  back. 

"I  want  to  see  it,"  she  said,  still  calmly. 

"It's  out  of  the  question,"  replied  Norman,  in 
the  same  tone  as  before. 

There  was  a  suggestion  of  patronage,  of  superi- 
ority in  his  voice — unintentional,  no  doubt — which 
exasperated  Marjorie  beyond  endurance.  The  ig- 
nominy of  being  refused  what  was  freely  permitted 

208 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

to  another — she  the  wife,  the  life  partner,  the  bone 
of  his  bone — spoke  to  her,  urged  her,  stirred  her  to 
the  depths. 

"I  don't  care,"  she  cried.  "If  Miss  Hope  can 
see  it,  I  can.  I  am  your  wife,  Norman.  I  will.  I 
insist." 

Norman  still  neglected  to  take  her  quite 
seriously.  "No,  Marjorie,"  he  said.  "You  haven't 
a  notion  what  you  are  asking.  Why,  that  book 
would  make  each  particular  one  of  your  hairs  to 
stand  on  end." 

Oh,  Norman,  could  you  find  no  other  tone  in 
which  to  save  this  tender  wife  of  yours? 

The  half-chaffing  smile  was  still  on  his  lips,  when 
suddenly — a  swish  of  skirts — Marjorie  had  rushed 
past  him  to  the  cupboard. 

"Stop  her!"  cried  Rosamond,  frantically,  who 
was  at  the  other  side  of  the  room. 

Norman  sprang  to  the  cupboard.  He  was  not 
quick  enough.  The  key  was  in  the  lock.  Marjorie 
had  turned  it  and  the  book  was  in  her  hand.  More 
than  that,  without  an  instant's  pause — in  a  flash — 
she  had  darted  to  the  window  and  flung  open  the 
casement.  Her  eyes  were  blazing. 

209 


"If  either  of  you  come  near  me,"  she  cried,  stand- 
ing there,  "I  will  throw  myself  out." 

She  would  have  done.  She  was  outside  herself. 
Her  ostrich  plumes  waving  in  the  keen  air,  she  was 
more  like  a  picturesque  fury  than  the  quiet  Mar- 
jorie  we  have  known.  Neither  Norman  nor  Rosa- 
mond dared  move.  They  stood  watching  her,  help- 
less, as  they  might  have  watched  a  child  with  a 
loaded  firearm.  Marjorie  raised  the  book. 

"Mrs  Villiers,  for  heaven's  sake,  don't,"  said 
Rosamond,  her  clear  voice  charged  with  a  very  pain 
of  earnestness. 

"I  never  asked  anything  in  my  life  so  fervently 
as  I  now  implore  you  to  put  down  that  book,"  said 
Norman.  He  was  serious  enough  now.  The 
muscles  in  his  face  were  straining,  it  needed  the  ut- 
most effort  of  his  will  to  keep  himself  stationary. 

Marjorie  took  not  the  least  notice  of  either  of 
them.  Indeed,  the  insinuation  contained  in  the  ap- 
peals only  fanned  her  purpose. 

She  gave  a  short  hysterical  laugh.  "I'm  such  a 
namby-pamby  piece  of  crockery,  am  I,"  she  said, 
"that  a  few  sheets  of  paper  and  ink  must  shiver  me 
to  pieces?"  She  laughed  again.  "Come,  little 
book,  come  and  shiver  me."  She  opened  it  at  the 

210 


title-page.  "  'The  Dialogues  of  Luisa  Sigea',"  she 
read.  "How  very  exciting!  Is  my  hair  all  right, 
Norman  ?  'The  Skirmish — Tribadicon,' — what 
does  that  mean  ?  'Fabric — The  Duel — Frolics  and 
Sports.'  What  a  boring  book !" 

She  spoke  nearly  naturally,  but  not  quite.  The 
nervous  tension  beneath  was  just  perceptible. 
Then,  with  an  air  of  indifference — scarcely  exagger- 
ated— she  turned  haphazard  to  a  page  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  volume  and  began  reading  down  it.  The 
silence  was  oppressive.  Norman  and  Rosamond 
hardly  breathed.  It  was  not  for  long.  Slowly  at 
first,  then  more  quickly,  then  with  a  great  rush,  the 
whole  of  her  face  and  neck  and  ears  flooded  crim- 
son. It  faded  almost  in  a  moment  and  left  her 
deathly  white.  She  uttered  a  low  moan,  like  a  child 
in  pain.  Then,  without  ostentation,  as  was  every- 
thing connected  with  her,  her  knees  gave  way  be- 
neath her  and  she  sank  quietly  to  the  ground,  un- 
conscious. 

Norman  lifted  her  gently  in  his  arms  and  laid 
her  on  a  couch.  Rosamond  fetched  some  eau-de- 
cologne  and  bathed  her  brow  and  lips  with  it. 

g 

After  a  few  minutes  she  slowly  opened  her  eyes. 
"What  has  happened?"  she  said,  vaguely.  She 

211 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

closed  her  eyes  again,  with  a  tired  sigh.  "Yes — 
I — I  remember." 

She  remembered:  and  she  understood.  With 
unclouded  mental  vision  she  saw  at  last — in  all  its 
black  vacuity — the  unbridgable  abyss  that  divided 
her  from  her  husband.  And  she  sank  beneath  the 
realisation.  The  big  hopes  and  longings  she  had 
brought  with  her,  the  life's  happiness  she  had  come 
to  fight  for,  all  were  beaten  down  beneath  an  over- 
powering desire  for  rest. 

"James  is  downstairs,"  she  said,  wearily.  "He 
will — take  me  home." 


212 


CHAPTER  XIX 

BETWEEN  four  and  five  months  later,  on  a  bright 
afternoon  towards  the  end  of  April,  Norman 
Villiers  was  making  his  way  slowly  down  Picca- 
dilly. He  stopped  listlessly  now  and  then  to  look 
in  a  shop  window;  then,  finding  himself  engrossed 
in  careful  scrutiny  of  a  stand  of  diamond  rings  or 
the  embossed  back  of  a  silver  hair-brush,  he  gave 
himself  an  impatient  shrug  and  went  on  again. 
More  than  once  a  man  hurrying  eastward  nearly 
collided  with  him,  and  apologised.  On  each  occa- 
sion Villiers  looked  back  at  the  strenuous  pedes- 
trian with  considerable  resentment,  though  the 
fault  was  his  own.  To  have  it  suggested,  if  it  be 
only  by  a  brushing  shoulder,  that  you  are  not  part 
of  the  vigorous  stream  of  life,  but  only  a  straw 
upon  its  surface,  is  not  pleasant.  He  was  wearing 
a  dark  flannel  suit  and  straw  hat — neither  of  them 
conspicuously  tidy.  He  did  not  harmonise — and 

213 


MR  AND  MRS   V1LLIERS 

he  was  conscious  of  the  fact  and  resented  it — with 
the  signs  of  spring,  the  freshness  and  new  life  and 
hope  about  him. 

And  yet  there  was  every  reason,  on  the  surface, 
why  his  mental  attitude  should  have  been  entirely 
the  reverse,  why,  indeed,  he  should  have  been 
among  the  brightest  and  most  chirrupy  of  the 
products  of  spring.  This  was  one  of  those  red- 
letter  days  which  usually  bring  satisfaction  to  the 
most  hardened  of  literary  men,  and  which  in  his 
own  case  had  always  done  so  in  former  times ;  when, 
after  months  of  work,  his  manuscript,  freshly 
typed,  neatly  packed,  spick-and-span,  had  been 
finally  delivered  into  the  hands  of  his  publishers. 
He  had  been  accustomed  to  use  an  agent  as  inter- 
mediary for  this  purpose.  To-day,  however,  he 
had  taken  the  manuscript  himself,  partly  because 
he  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  agent  did 
little  which  he  couldn't  do  himself;  and  partly  be- 
cause he  had  learnt  through  experience  to  respect 
Thornton,  as  an  honourable,  straightforward  man 
of  business,  who  was  not  waiting  to  trip  and  snare 
him  at  every  turn.  He  knew  that  an  author  who 
was  compelled  to  deal  with  publishers  who  required 
watching  like  a  sharper  on  a  racecourse  had  much 


MR  AND   MRS   FILLIERS 

better  lay  down  his  pen  and  take  to  other  means 
of  livelihood. 

On  the  present  occasion,  however,  there  were 
several  reasons  to  operate  against  the  undivided 
sway  of  genial  content  in  his  mind.  To  begin  with, 
he  was  not  satisfied  with  his  work — at  all  events, 
with  the  latter  part  of  it.  Frequently  it  had  been 
done  against  the  grain,  by  the  mere  force  of  his 
will,  when  he  was  painfully  aware  that  he  was  not 
in  a  condition  to  produce ;  often  in  the  teeth  of  the 
depressing  conviction  that  he  was  not  gripping,  that 
he  was  writing  what  would  be  yawned  over  and 
found  boring.  He  had  known  what  it  was  to  look 
back  at  his  sheets  and  to  feel  the  sickening  droop 
which  comes  from  the  thought,  "This  is  all  the 
uttermost  commonplace,  and  why  anyone  should 
take  the  trouble  to  read  it  I  haven't  the  faintest 
idea."  At  those  times,  it  was  only  the  knowledge 
of  what  he  had  in  him,  of  what  had  been  hall- 
marked as  containing  at  least  a  substantial  propor- 
tion of  gold,  which  kept  him  going. 

In  addition  to  that,  circumstances  had  rendered 
it  necessary  for  him  to  make  Thornton  a  distasteful 
and,  to  him,  rather  humiliating  request. 

"I  should  be  glad  if  you  could  arrange  to  go 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

through  it  as  soon  as  possible,"  he  had  said,  when 
handing  over  the  manuscript;  "and,  if  you  are  sat- 
isfied, perhaps  you  wouldn't  object  to  let  me  have  a 
small  cheque  on  account." 

Thornton  had  raised  his  eyebrows  in  evident  sur- 
prise. "Certainly,  my  dear  fellow,"  he  had  replied. 
"It's  a  trifle  unusual,  but  we  should  be  willing  to 
do  it  in  your  case.  There's  nothing  wrong,  I  hope  ? 
You  got  your  draft  for  two  hundred  in  February?" 

Villiers  had  replied  in  the  affirmative.  He  had 
not  added  that  the  two  hundred,  with  an  additional 
fifty,  had  been  placed  to  his  wife's  credit  on  the 
25th  of  April,  and  that  in  the  meantime  he  shared 
the  common  need  of  humanity  to  sustain  life  by 
food  and  shelter.  That  phrase,  it  may  be  remarked 
parenthetically,  covered  practically  the  whole  of 
his  personal  expenses.  Rosamond,  from  first  to 
last,  had  not  accepted  a  single  present  from  him, 
and  continued  steadfastly  to  decline  to  do  so.  She 
did  not  doubt  his  motives  in  offering  them.  Simply 
she  would  not  place  herself  in  a  position  which 
could  be  open  even  to  the  chance  of  misconstruc- 
tion. All  that  was  patent  to  Thornton,  however, 
was  that  his  client,  in  some  way  or  other,  had  man- 
aged to  get  through  two  hundred  pounds  in  a 

216 


MB  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

couple  of  months.  That,  combined  with  his  knowl- 
edge of  the  latter's  usually  temperate  habits,  had 
caused  him  considerable  perplexity,  and  also  some 
quite  genuine  anxiety  on  the  novelist's  personal  ac- 
count. And  as  the  publisher  was  not  a  man  whose 
face  was  the  least  inscrutable,  these  private  senti- 
ments had  been  perfectly  discernible  by  Villiers. 

Lastly,  as  affecting  his  present  state  of  mind, 
Norman's  health  at  this  time  was  by  no  means 
good.  The  strain  of  serving  two  masters — his 
work  and  his  passion — during  the  last  six  months 
had  not  been  a  light  one,  and  had  not  been  imposed 
upon  his  constitution  without  leaving  its  mark.  He 
could  not  have  said  precisely  what  ailed  him,  nor 
perhaps  would  have  admitted  definite  indisposition 
at  all.  Yet  there  were  a  few  symptoms,  some  writ- 
ing on  the  wall,  which,  if  he  could  not  interpret, 
at  least  he  was  obliged  privately  to  recognise. 
Normally  a  person  of  equable  temper,  of  late  the 
least  trifle  had  been  apt  to  cause  him  senseless  ner- 
vous irritation ;  his  appetite,  to  his  disgust,  had  be- 
come spasmodic  and  peculiar;  he  found,  too,  that 
any  sudden  exertion  left  him  breathing  hard  and 
set  his  heart  beating  up  into  his  mouth;  and  his 
brain,  usually  so  vigorous,  occasionally  alarmed 

217 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

him  by  running  into  a  dead  blank  and  refusing  to 
answer  to  his  call.  On  the  whole,  therefore,  it  was 
not  perhaps  to  be  wondered  at  that  he  was  less 
elated  by  the  completion  of  his  manuscript  than 
might  have  been  expected,  nor  that  he  walked  down 
Piccadilly  with  the  indifferent  air  of  a  man  to  whom 
the  world  presents  no  interest  and  no  allurement. 

He  was  so  proceeding  when  he  suddenly  caught 
sight  of  Marion.  Clad  in  a  fresh  spring  gown  of 
soft  heliotrope,  she  was  crossing  the  pavement  to 
get  into  her  brougham.  Norman  instinctively 
made  a  movement  to  conceal  himself  in  the  stream 
of  pedestrians  until  she  should  have  driven  away. 
In  this  he  was  not  successful.  Marion  had  already 
noticed  him  and  was  waiting  at  the  door  of  her  car- 
riage until  he  came  up. 

"Why  did  you  try  to  avoid  me?"  were  her  first 
words,  uttered  quite  severely,  as  he  approached. 

When  he  removed  his  hat,  Norman  remembered 
that  his  hair  had  not  been  cut  for  two  months  and 
was  straggling  loosely  from  the  central  parting. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  "I  have  no  ex- 
cuse, except  that  I  felt  untidy." 

She  examined  him    perfectly    frankly.      "You 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

should  not  be  untidy,  Norman,  in  Piccadilly,  in 
April." 

The  crisp  air  had  given  each  of  her  cheeks  a  soft 
flush.  Norman  thought  he  had  never  seen  her  look 
more  deliciously  feminine  and  winning.  He  but- 
toned up  his  coat,  which  did  not  hang  well,  from 
the  bottom,  and  furtively  attempted  to  brush  some 
mud  from  his  left  trouser-leg,  the  souvenir  of  a 
passing  hansom.  Also  he  held  himself  upright, 
which  he  was  annoyed  to  realise  sharply  he  had  not 
been  doing  hitherto. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  she  demanded  next. 

He  was  about  to  say  "Home,"  then  changed  his 
mind,  and  was  framing  a  vague  generality,  when  he 
abruptly  scouted  the  unnecessary  subterfuge,  and 
replied  plainly,  "I  am  going  back  to  Albany  Man- 
sions." 

"Will  you  let  me  come  with  you  a  little  way?" 
said  Marion.  "It  is  a  long  time  since  we  met,  and 
I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

Without  waiting  for  a  reply,  she  gave  directions 
to  her  coachman  to  meet  her  at  Hyde  Park  Corner, 
and  turned  westward  by  his  side. 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  Marjorie,"  she 
amplified. 

219 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

"Is  she  still  with  you?"  Norman  asked. 

"Well,  just  at  present  we  have  sent  her  away  to 
Folkestone,"  said  Marion.  "James  insisted  upon 
her  seeing  Dr  Percival,  and  he  prescribed  change 
of  air.  Do  doctors  ever  prescribe  anything  else?" 
she  asked  lightly. 

"Is  she  ill?"  said  Norman,  with  a  twinge. 

"James  says  so.     Dr  Percival  doesn't  know." 

"What  do  you  say?"  looking  into  her  face. 

"I  don't  think  she  is  ill  at  present,"  said  Marion. 
"I  think  she  may  be,  unless  we  can  give  her  an 
interest  in  life." 

It  was  difficult  to  pursue  the  thread.  Norman 
took  up  another.  "Wouldn't  it  be  more  con- 
venient," he  said,  "if  she  were  to  take  a  small  house 
of  her  own,  or  at  least  a  flat?" 

"Oh,  we  are  very  comfortable,"  said  Marion. 
"The  house  is  large  enough.  And  James  gets  on 
wonderfully  well  with  the  children." 

There  was  no  underlying  rebuke  in  her  tone. 
Nevertheless,  Norman  found  the  information  very 
far  from  palatable.  That  someone  else  was  board- 
ing and  lodging  his  children,  would  perhaps,  later 
on,  see  to  their  education,  and  in  the  meantime  was 
"getting  on  wonderfully  well"  with  them,  was  a 

220 


particularly  nauseous  pill  he  had  not  thought  to  be 
called  upon  to  swallow. 

But  he  took  a  big  gulp  and  swallowed  it.  "It  is 
very  good  of  James,"  he  said. 

"Besides,"  added  Marion,  "it  is  better  not  to 
think  of  any  permanent  arrangement  until  matters 
are  settled." 

"Do  you  mean — ?"    He  stopped. 

"Yes,"  said  Marion;  "she  is  going  to  take  di- 
vorce proceedings." 

Norman  received  the  information  quite  quietly. 
"I  think  that  is  best,"  he  said,  "for  us  both." 

"So  James  thinks,"  said  Marion.  "I  think,  per- 
haps, at  the  bottom  of  her  mind — not  of  her  heart 
— she  does  so  herself.  She  thinks  you  will  marry 
Miss  Hope?" 

"If  Miss  Hope  will  marry  me"  said  Norman. 

She  looked  at  him  with  calm  gravity.  "Surely?" 
she  said. 

"I'm  not  so  sure,"  said  he. 

The  point  was  not  of  immediate  concern.  For 
the  present,  he  had  noticed  that  Marion  had  again 
pointedly  left  herself  out  of  the  reckoning.  And 
he  was  beginning  to  realise,  as  he  had  often  done 
before,  that  it  was  her  opinion  which  counted  most 

221 


MR  AND  MRS  FILLIERS 

with  him.  So  again  he  pressed  her:  "But  what 
do  you  think,  Marion?" 

"I  can't  be  sure,"  she  said.  "It  is  you  yourself 
who  make  the  difficulty.  If  I  could  see  inside  you 
I  could  be  sure.  Otherwise  I  can't  be." 

He  offered  no  comment,  and  she  laid  her  hand 
on  his  arm.  "Norman,"  she  said,  kindly,  "I  don't 
think  you  are  happy — I'm  sure  you  are  not  well." 

Again  he  was  silent. 

"It  is  not  too  late  still,"  she  said,  earnestly. 

This  time  she  deliberately  waited  for  his  reply. 

"A  second  mistake,"  he  said,  at  last,  slowly,  "had 
I  made  one,  would  not  neutralise  the  first." 

"If  you  can  say  to  me  honestly,"  said  she,  "that 
you  are  happy  and  content,  and  can  look  forward 
to  the  future  without  misgiving,  I  should  agree 
with  James  that  divorce  is  best  for  Marjorie  as  well 
as  for  you." 

"That  is  rather  a  lot  to  say,"  said  Norman. 
"But  of  this  I  am  absolutely  certain — I  am  less  fitted 
now,  even  than  before,  to  make  Marjorie  happy, 
or  to  be  made  happy  by  her." 

"Very  well,"  said  Marion,  seeing  the  futility  of 
further  discussion,  "I  won't  argue  with  you.  But 
I  am  sorry,  Norman,  for  my  own  sake  as  well  as 

222 


MR  AND  MRS  V1LLIERS 

for  others.  I  have  always  been  proud  of  you  as  a 
brother-in-law;  and  I  like  you."  She  stood  still  as 
they  reached  the  park  gates.  "More  than  that," 
she  added,  "if  it  is  the  least  comfort  to  you  to  know 
it,  I  haven't  blamed  you." 

The  brougham  was  waiting  and  she  got  into  it, 
and  Norman  closed  the  door.  She  put  a  small 
gloved  hand  through  the  window.  Norman  had 
not  expected  it.  He  took  it  in  his  own,  bare- 
headed. Then,  moved  by  a  sudden  impulse,  he 
bent  his  head  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips.  The  next 
moment  he  was  striding  along  .towards 'Knights- 
bridge,  feeling  slightly  ashamed  of  his  action. 

He  had  not  expected  it.  That  fact  forced  itself 
steadily,  ominously,  further  and  further  into  recog- 
nition as  he  walked  home.  Why  had  he  not  ex- 
pected it?  Reason  offered  no  adequate  explana- 
tion, especially  when  Marion's  concluding  words 
were  considered.  Why,  then?  Why?  Why? 
Why?  Every  beat  of  his  feet  on  the  pavement 
rapped  out  the  monosyllable.  He  would  not  an- 
swer. He  shook  himself  angrily  and  walked  faster, 
declining  to  vouchsafe  a  reply  to  the  pertinacious 
little  questioner  who  had  perched  in  the  corner  of 
his  brain.  Perhaps  we,  having  no  personal  interest 

223 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

in  the  matter,  and  being  graciously  filled  with  that 
sweet  wisdom  which  springs  from  conscious  recti- 
tude, may  be  forgiven  a  suspicion  that  the  process 
begun  on  the  day  when  he  had  assisted  Rosamond 
to  erect  a  monument  to  the  "little  pages"  had  since 
made  somewhat  rapid  strides. 

When  he  reached  Albany  Mansions  he  ascended 
the  four  flights  of  stairs  to  his  rooms  with  a  heavy 
tread,  and  at  once  dropped  into  an  easy-chair.  He 
was  not  surprised  that  he  was  tired;  he  had  become 
accustomed  to  be  so  after  less  exercise  than  he  had 
taken  that  day.  It  was  among  the  minor  charac- 
ters in  that  writing  on  the  wall,  which  had  already 
lost  its  novelty,  and  was  beginning,  through  fa- 
miliarity, to  lose  its  admonition.  He  dozed  lightly 
for  half  an  hour,  then  got  up,  feeling  somewhat 
revived,  tidied  his  hair  before  a  small  ornamental 
mirror,  and  crossed  the  landing  to  Rosamond's 
room. 

He  found  her  seated  before  the  fire,  reading  a 
novel.  He  sometimes  wondered  when  she  did  her 
"stuff!"  He  hardly  remembered  having  caught 
her  in  the  act.  Yet  that  she  managed  to  fill  five  or 
six  substantial  columns  of  close  type  weekly  he  had 
the  best  of  reason  for  knowing. 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

"When  do  you  get  through  your  work,  Rosa- 
mond?" he  asked,  in  a  half-chaffing  tone. 

"When  I  feel  inclined,"  said  Rosamond.  She 
laid  the  book  on  her  lap. 

"Which  evidently  isn't  just  at  present,"  said 
Norman,  smiling,  and  at  the  same  time  appropriat- 
ing a  comfortable  chair  in  reasonable  proximity  to 
hers. 

"No,  I'm  lazy  this  afternoon,"  said  Rosamond. 
She  looked  at  him  a  little  anxiously.  "You  look 
tired,  dear.  What  have  you  been  doing?" 

"I  went  to  see  Thornton,"  said  Norman,  "and 
I  walked  back.  It  oughtn't  to  tire  me.  I  don't 
think  I've  been  very  fit  lately.  Rosamond,"  he 
added,  quietly,  "I  have  some  news." 

"Yes?"  said  Rosamond. 

"Marjorie  is  going  to  divorce  me." 

Rosamond's  face  gave  no  indication  how  the 
information  affected  her.  For  several  minutes  she 
gazed  into  the  fire  without  speaking.  At  last  she 
looked  up.  "Are  you  glad?"  she  said. 

"Yes." 

"Why?" 

"We  can  marry." 

Rosamond  shook  her  head.  "That  is  all  you 
225 


MR  AND  MRS   V1LLIERS 

think  about,"  she  said,  with  a  short  laugh;  "jump- 
ing out  of  one  pan  into  another." 

"Aren't  you  glad?"  said  Norman. 

"I  think  it  is  noble  of  her,"  replied  Rosamond. 

"Of  Marjorie?" 

"You  stupid  man,  do  you  think  she  wants  to  di- 
vorce you  ?  Do  you  think  she  loves  you  one  atom 
less  now  than  she  ever  did?  Don't  you  under- 
stand that  she  is  doing  this  because  she  thinks  that 
to  marry  me  would  mean  your  happiness?  that  she 
is  deliberately  taking  her  heart  and  burying  it  for 
your  sake?" 

Norman  took  up  a  paper-knife  from  a  table  be- 
side him  and  bent  it  in  his  hands.  His  face  had  be- 
come inscrutable. 

"Why  do  you  say  all  this?"  he  asked,  at  length. 
"Do  you  want  me  to  go  back  to  her?" 

"No!"  said  Rosamond.  "How  can  I?  But  I 
think  no  gentler,  more  unselfish  woman  lives." 

"I  have  said  that  to  you  often,"  said  Norman. 

"Yes;  well,  now  I  agree  with  you." 

There  was  a  long  pause. 

Presently  Norman  said:  "Rosamond,  are  you 
still  determined  not  to  marry?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Rosamond.  "We  are  happy 
226 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

at  present.  Why  should  we  change?  Unless — 
Yes.  Well,  in  that  case,  perhaps.  One  must  ac- 
knowledge Mrs  Grundy  if  you  meet  her  in  the 
street,  though  I've  no  intention  to  call  upon  her." 

"It  would  be  returning  good  for  evil,"  said  Nor- 
man, with  a  laugh. 

"If  the  elderly  lady  occasionally  practised  that 
virtue  herself,"  said  Rosamond,  "the  argument 
would  have  more  weight.  I  wonder  if  the  misery 
that  is  endured  to  avoid  giving  her  the  least  shadow 
of  uneasiness  ever  does  cause  her  a  twinge  of  com- 
punction?" 

"You  and  I  were  born  two  thousand  years  too 
late,"  said  Norman,  smiling.  "We  don't  under- 
stand the  world  of  to-day,  and  assuredly  the  world 
of  to-day  doesn't  understand  us.  We  ought  to  have 
lived  in  the  days  of  Augustus  and  the  Latin  poets. 

'Adspicies  occulos  tremulo  fulgore  micentes  ; 
Ut  sol  in  liquida  saspe  refulgat  aqua,'  " 

he  quoted.  "What  a  beautiful  couplet!  And  who 
knew  its  truth  better  than  Ovid?" 

"I  daresay,"  said  Rosamond;  "but  I  must  take 
your  word  for  it,  unless  you  will  condescend  to 
translate." 

Norman  laughed.  "He  advises  his  reader,"  he 
227 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

said,  "to  'watch  her  eyes,  glowing  with  a  tremulous 
light,  just  as  the  sunbeams  are  often  reflected  by  a 
limpid  pool.'  ' 

"Very  pretty,"  said  Rosamond,  "but  rather 
meaningless  without  the  context." 

"I  think  you  can  guess  the  context,"  said  Nor- 
man. 

Rosamond  said  nothing;  until  presently:  "And 
so  Ovid  knew  it  was  true?" 

"Oh,  didn't  he!" 

A  soft  blush  stole  into  her  cheeks,  and  she  looked 
into  the  fire.  "Do  you  know,  Norman  ?" 

His  eyes  lighted.    "Yes — yes — yes !"  he  cried. 

Rosamond  uttered  a  low  laugh,  happy  and 
musical.  She  dropped  her  head  on  the  back  of 
her  chair,  smiling.  "Then  come  and  give  me  a 
kiss,"  she  said. 


228 


CHAPTER  XX 

EVERY  Sunday  morning  James  Baker  allowed 
himself  what  he  called  half  an  hour's  indulgence. 
That  is  to  say,  he  arose  at  half-past  eight  instead 
of  at  eight.  Marion,  having  no  inclination  to  fol- 
low his  example,  frequently  availed  herself  of  this 
half  hour — especially  since  Marjorie's  advent  had 
limited  their  opportunities  of  private  converse — to 
impart  to  her  spouse's  recumbent  form,  while  she 
dressed,  such  things  as  it  was  good  for  him  to  hear, 
and,  more  commonly,  to  extract  from  him  such 
other  things  as  she  deemed  it  desirable  should  be 
brought  to  her  cognisance.  She  was  moved  to  ad- 
vance her  outposts  in  the  latter  direction  on  the 
Sunday  morning  the  next  but  one  after  her  meet- 
ing with  Norman.  Marjorie,  in  the  meantime,  had 
returned  to  them.  James  himself  had  suggested 
it.  The  Folkestone  visit  had  given  her  additional 
time  for  brooding,  and  the  seaside  air  had  bene- 
fited her  as  much  as  it  ever  benefits  those  whose 

229 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

malady  proceeds  from  sentiment  and  emotion.  He 
knew,  besides,  that,  now  that  divorce  proceedings 
were  to  be  set  in  motion,  the  lawyers  would  need 
her  on  the  spot  to  assist  them.  It  was  perhaps  not 
remarkable,  therefore,  that  Marion  should  find  it 
convenient  to  talk  things  over  in  the  connubial 
secrecy  afforded  by  the  Sunday  morning's  indul- 
gence. 

She  was  engaged,  when  the  spirit  prompted  her, 
in  an  operation  involving  a  much  be-frilled  gar- 
ment, which  demanded  that  James  should  dis- 
creetly veil  his  eyes.  He  not  only  did  that,  but 
obligingly  turned  round  to  face  the  opposite  direc- 
tion, so  obligingly  that  Marion  was  impelled  to 
make  a  small  grimace  behind  his  back,  from 
which,  perhaps,  we  might  infer  that  she  would  not 
necessarily  have  been  finally  inexorable  had  he 
proved  to  be  in  a  recalcitrant  humour. 

"What  did  Mr  Elliot  say?"  she  asked. 

Mr  Elliot,  it  should  be  mentioned,  was  the  elder- 
ly family  lawyer,  to  whom  James  had  paid  a  visit 
on  the  previous  morning. 

"Why,  a  great  deal  more  than  I  cared  to  hear," 
said  James.  "It  seems  there  will  have  to  be  two 
trials.  And  Marjorie  will  have  to  write  a  letter  to 

230 


Norman,  which  can  be  read  out  in  Court,  asking 
him  politely  to  return  to  her.  I  don't  pretend  to 
understand  it.  To  have  to  ask  to  be  given  a  thing 
one  day,  in  order  to  be  privileged  to  ask  to  have 
it  taken  away  the  next,  seems  a  strange  state  of  af- 
fairs to  my  mind.  But  that's  what  he  says." 

"It  will  take  some  time,  I  expect,"  said  Marion. 

"It  wouldn't  be  lawyers'  work  if  it  didn't," 
grunted  James. 

"And  it  will  be  rather  costly,  I'm  afraid.  Luck- 
ily, Marjorie  hasn't  been  spending  much  lately;  but 
she  will  want  all  she  has  afterwards." 

Shades  of  justice!  Was  ever  such  an  insinua- 
tion ?  James  was  naturally  incensed.  His  business 
integrity,  not  to  say  his  sense  of  honour,  was  as- 
sailed. 

"I  suppose  I  can  be  permitted  to  pay  my  own 
lawyer?"  he  demanded,  hotly. 

It  was  a  proposition  which  Marion  could  not 
allow  to  pass,  however. 

"I  don't  think  you  are  called  upon  to  do  that, 
dear,"  she  said,  gently. 

This  was  so  flagrant  that  James  was  driven  to 
hunch  himself  wrathfully  round,  forgetting  the 
delicate  operation  that  was  proceeding.  "I  beg 


your  pardon,  my  dear,"  he  said,  quickly,  and  turned 
back  again. 

"Well?"  said  Marion. 

James  fixed  a  chest  of  drawers  with  a  vicious 
stare.  "I  was  going  to  say,"  he  vouchsafed,  "that 
what  I  am  called  upon  to  do  is  my  own  private 
concern,  as  a  man  of  business,  and  I  won't  have  any 
interference  with  It." 

Marion  shuffled  into  a  petticoat.  Then  she  went 
quietly  around  to  the  other  side  of  the  bed  and  knelt 
down  beside  it,  resting  her  arms  upon  the  mattress, 
thus  interposing  an  effectual  and  very  attractive 
screen  between  the  chest  of  drawers  and  her  hus- 
band's ireful  gaze. 

"Why  will  you  persist  in  being  so  generous?" 
she  said  earnestly.  "Don't  you  understand  that  it 
makes  me  uncomfortable  to  know  you  are  doing 
all  this  for  my  sister?  I  feel  as  if  it  were  a  penalty 
you  had  incurred  by  marrying  me.  You  have  had 
her  five  months  with  us,  and  put  up  with  the  noise 
of  the  children,  but  I  can't  let  you  burden  yourself 
with  her  law  costs.  It  would  be  different  if  she 
couldn't  afford  it.  In  that  case  I  would  accept  it 
humbly  and  be  grateful — as  I  am,  as  it  is,"  she 
concluded. 

232 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

James  was  slightly  appeased.  His  wife's  gentle 
tones  and  sweet  winning  face  were  two  arguments 
which  he  found  it  very  difficult  to  resist. 

"I'm  not  in  the  least  generous — the  word  is  pre- 
posterous," he  grumbled.  "I've  employed  Elliot 
for  this  business,  and  the  man  who  calls  the  tune 
must  pay  the  piper.  If  Marjorie  isn't  satisfied  with 
him,  she  is  at  liberty  to  go  somewhere  else." 

Marion  flicked  him  lightly  on  the  cheek  with  her 
hand.  "Don't  talk  like  that,  you  old  humbug." 

"The  costs  will  be  no  great  matter,"  proceeded 
James,  still  rather  surlily:  "Norman  will  have  to 
pay  most  of  them." 

"How  much?" 

"A  few  pounds,"  said  James,  vaguely. 

"A  few  hundreds?" 

"Stuff  and  nonsense !"  said  James. 

Marion  said  no  more.  She  put  a  soft  arm  round 
his  neck  and  kissed  him  warmly,  twice,  upon  the 
lips.  Then  she  got  up. 

"What  have  you  arranged  with  Mr  Elliot?"  she 
asked,  after  a  time. 

"I've  promised  to  take  Marjorie  to  see  him  to- 
morrow morning,"  said  James. 

"Oh!" — a  trifle  nervously. 
233 


MR  AND   MRS   FILLIERS 

"You  think  there  will  be  a  scene?" 

"I'm  afraid  so." 

"Perhaps  it's  not  such  a  bad  thing,  after  all," 
remarked  James,  "that  this  trial  for  restitution  has 
to  precede  the  other.  It  will  get  her  used  to  the 
appearance  of  the  Court  and  the  general  atmos- 
phere. The  atmosphere,  by  the  by,  unless  it  has 
very  much  improved  since  the  last  time  I  served 
on  a  jury,  is  the  worst  in  Europe." 

Marion  threw  aside  the  smooth  towel  with  which 
she  had  been  ruthlessly  scrubbing  her  smoother 
neck,  and  suddenly  uncoiled  a  big  sheaf  of  hair  and 
dropped  it  down  on  her  back. 

"I'm  not  quite  satisfied  that  we  are  acting  for 
the  best,  even  yet,"  she  said.  "Norman  is  not 
happy." 

"How  do  you  know  that?"  said  James. 

"He  almost  admitted  it.  Besides,  I  could  see 
it." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  that  we  need  consider  him," 
said  James.  "He  has  chosen  his  own  course." 

"Yes,  but  if  he  is  not  happy,  it  may  mean  that 
he  still  cares  for  Marjorie,  though  he  mayn't  quite 
realise  it,  perhaps." 

204 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

"If  he  does,  she  is  still  waiting  for  him,  I  be- 
lieve," said  James. 

His  callous  tone  may  have  deceived  himself;  it 
certainly  didn't  deceive  Marion. 

"And  yet  it  almost  seems  it  is  the  only  thing  to 
be  done,"  she  proceeded,  without  acknowledging 
his  observation.  "There  is  a  perverseness  in  the 
way  fate  has  dealt  with  these  two  good  people 
which  is  quite  heart-rending.  Their  lives  have 
been  spoilt  by  converging.  If  they  had  not  met, 
they  might  each  have  been  happy.  Having  met, 
it  seems  that  nothing  can  make  them  happy." 

James  could  find  no  reply  to  this  which  could 
conceal,  even  from  himself,  that  he  recognised  its 
truth  with  considerable  misgiving,  so  he  was  fain 
to  keep  silent. 

"It's  after  half-past  eight,  dear,"  said  Marion, 
presently. 

Her  recumbent  spouse  had  been  drowsily  watch- 
ing her  while,  with  two  shapely  arms  upraised,  she 
arranged  her  plentiful  dark  brown  hair. 

"Do  you  know,  Marion,  my  dear,"  he  said, 
lazily,  "it  sometimes  occurs  to  me  that  you  are  an 
uncommonly  pretty  woman?" 

Marion  blushed  and  laughed.  Then  she  went 
235 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

up  to  her  lord  and  master  and  made  a  tug  at  the 
bed-clothes. 

"Get  up,  lazy-bones,"  she  said. 

On  the  following  morning,  having  been  pre- 
pared for  the  visit  to  the  lawyer,  Marjorie  came 
downstairs  cold  and  pale,  but  for  the  present  quite 
calm,  even  stately  in  her  rigorous  self-repression. 
She  ate  her  breakfast — or  pretended  to  eat  it — in 
silence. 

"My  dear,  we  are  not  going  to  the  dentist,"  said 
James,  with  the  commendable  design  of  lightening 
the  situation.  "Mr  Elliot  is  the  dullest  old  gentle- 
man I  ever  met." 

Marjorie  made  a  heroic,  but  pathetically  unsuc- 
cessful, effort  to  respond  in  the  same  spirit.  James 
saw  that  it  was  beyond  her  power  and  left  her  in 
peace.  After  breakfast  she  went  quietly  upstairs 
to  put  on  her  hat,  and  as  quietly  returned.  She 
was  dressed  very  simply  in  dark  grey  and  was  wear- 
ing a  veil.  How  different  from  the  brave  figure  in 
cream  and  ostrich  plumes  who  had  gone  out  on  her 
errand  of  hope  four  months  ago ! 

She  sat  down,  without  speaking,  in  a  chair  before 
the  small  fire  in  the  heurth,  thaf  was  failing  beneath 

236 


the  warm  May  sunshine;  and  put  her  toes  on  the 
fender.  When  the  maid  opened  the  front  door  and 
whistled  up  a  cab,  James  saw  a  slight  shudder  go 
through  her  and  her  clasped  hands  grip  more 
tightly.  A  few  moments  later  they  heard  that  quick 
clatter  and  jingle  which  is*  the  peculiar  production 
of  the  London  hansom,  followed,  as  it  drew  up, 
by  silence,  broken  by  an  intermittent  and  unim- 
portunate  jingle,  as  the  horse  occasionally  shook  its 
head. 

James  put  on  his  gloves  and  took  his  polished 
silk  hat  from  Marion,  which  the  latter  had  been 
tenderly  smoothing  with  a  velvet  pad.  He  went 
into  the  hall  and  held  open  the  front  door. 

"Now,  Marjorie,  my  dear,"  he  said,  lightly, 
"ladies  first — except  when  you're  hanging  them." 

But  the  hansom  quietly  waiting  at  the  gate  ap- 
peared suddenly  to  focus  for  Marjorie  all  the 
troubles  that  lay  ahead  of  her,  to  stand  as  a  con- 
crete and  definite  pledge  of  the  reality  of  that 
which  she  had  undertaken  to  go  through.  She 
drew  back,  clinging  helplessly  to  Marion. 

"I  can't!  I  can't!"  she  wailed. 

James  closed  the  door  again. 

"You  must  understand,  Marjorie,"  he  said, 
237 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

quietly,  "that  there  is  no  question  of  divorce  as 
yet.  You  are  merely  going  to  ask  the  Court  to 
order  Norman  to  return  to  you." 

"But  I  don't  want  to,"  cried  Marjorie,  between 
wild  sobs.  "They  are  happy  together.  I  don't 
want  to  part  them." 

"Norman  will  know  that.  He'll  understand 
perfectly  well  that  it's  only  a  legal  device  to  enable 
you  to  set  him  free  afterwards." 

But  Marjorie  by  this  time  scarcely  heard  him. 
In  a  frenzy  of  despair,  she  was  calling  piteously  on 
her  sister  for  protection,  clutching  impetuously  at 
anything  within  her  reach,  as  though  James  had  a 
design  to  carry  her  off  by  main  force. 

"Hold  her  a  moment,  Marion,"  he  said. 

He  went  into  the  dining-room  and  came  back 
with  some  brandy-and-water  a  trifle  stiffer  than  he 
was  accustomed  to  take  it  himself.  Marjorie  was 
beginning  to  laugh.  He  took  her  by  the  shoulders, 
handing  the  glass  to  Marion. 

"Stop!"  he  said. 

The  unaccustomed  severity  of  his  voice  fright- 
ened Marjorie  into  quietude.  Then  he  commanded 
her  in  the  same  tone  to  drink  the  brandy.  She 
obeyed  meekly.  It  made  her  cough  and  choke,  and 

238 


MR  AND  MRS  V1LL1ERS 

sent  water  to  her  eyes.  But  the  good  spirit  did  its 
work,  and  burned  up  into  her  cheeks;  and  when 
she  got  back  her  breath,  the  sudden  shock  of  it 
forced  her  to  utter  a  natural  laugh. 

"That's  better,"  said  James. 

In  a  few  moments  she  had  recovered  control  of 
herself. 

"I'm  ready,  James,"  she  said,  with  pathetic  hu- 
mility. "I'm  sorry." 

She  walked  quite  calmly  to  the  cab  and  got  in. 

"There's  no  need  to  be  sorry  for  that,  my  dear," 
said  James,  cheerily,  as  he  took  his  seat  beside  her. 
"Some  women  indulge  in  hysterics  for  an  hour  at 
a  stretch." 

Privately,  he  asked  himself,  with  a  slight  shiver, 
"If  she  is  like  this  now,  what  on  earth  will  happen 
in  Court?" 

But  James  didn't  quite  know  Marjoric. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

ONE  afternoon  about  the  time  Marjorie  was 
making  her  pilgrimage  to  the  lawyer,  Norman  re- 
turned to  his  rooms  to  find  a  visitor  waiting  for 
him.  This  was  Mr  Thornton.  He  jumped  up 
with  evident  relief  as  Norman  entered. 

"Ah,  my  dear  fellow,"  he  said,  briskly,  "I'm 
glad  you've  come.  I  was  just  going  to  write  to 
you  on  a  sheet  of  your  own  sermon-paper.  They 
told  me  downstairs  you  were  in,  but  when  I  got  up 
here,  not  a  sign  of  you." 

"I  was  in  one  of  the  other  suites,"  Norman  re- 
plied, not  without  a  just  perceptible  note  of  em- 
barrassment. 

"That  explains  it,"  said  Mr  Thornton. 

It  occurred  to  him,  being  a  man  whose  head  had 
been  screwed  on  without  any  indecision,  that  pos- 
sibly it  might  explain  one  or  two  other  things,  in- 
cluding the  speedy  disappearance  of  the  two  hun- 

240 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIEES 

dred  pounds.  But  upon  that  point,  as  we  know, 
he  was  wrong. 

"Sit  down,  won't  you?"  said  Norman,  a  little 
listlessly.  He  had  a  suspicion  what  was  coming. 
"Have  you  come  about  the  book?" 

He  dropped  into  a  chair  himself,  and  rested  his 
elbow  on  the  arm  and  his  cheek  on  his  knuckles, 
looking  across  at  his  visitor  with  a  lack  of  interest 
in  his  face,  which  was  partly  assumed  and  partly 
the  result  of  the  colourless  view  of  life  that  had 
lately  grown  upon  him. 

"Yes,"  said  Thornton,  resuming  his  seat,  "I 
want  to  talk  it  over  with  you,  Villiers.  It's  better 
than  trusting  to  letters,  isn't  it?"  He  picked  up  a 
parcel  from  the  floor  beside  him.  "Hayling  had 
it  to  read,  and  his  opinion  was  that  it  wasn't  up  to 
your  level.  So  I've  been  through  it  myself — every 
word  of  it."  He  leaned  forward  in  his  chair,  clasp- 
ing his  hands  on  the  parcel.  "I'm  sorry,  my  dear 
fellow,  but  I'm  bound  to  say  I  agree  with  him." 

"I'm  not  surprised,"  said  Norman,  without 
showing  any  emotion,  though  the  words  hit  him 
hard.  "I  wasn't  satisfied  myself." 

"I'm  thankful  to  hear  you  say  that,"  said  Thorn- 
ton. "Don't  suppose  I'm  condemning  the  book 

241 


MR  AND  MRS  FILLIERS 

wholesale.  If  it  had  been  written  by  a  new  man, 
I  should  think  a  great  many  times  before  I  lost  him 
for  all  time  by  sending  it  back.  You  don't  mis- 
understand me?" 

"Not  in  the  least,"  said  Norman,  a  little  gloom- 
ily. "All  the  same — whether  I'm  written  out  or 
not  I  can't  say,  but  I  fancy  it's  the  best  I  can  do 
to-day." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  Thornton,  cheerily.  "We 
all  have  our  ups  and  downs.  Never  a  writer  yet 
who  didn't  occasionally  sink  below  himself,  even 
in  his  published  work."  He  began  to  untie  the 
string  of  the  parcel.  "Besides,  I'm  not  even  com- 
plaining of  the  book  as  a  whole.  Up  to  a  point  I 
recognise  you.  It's  only  in  the  second  half  that  it 
loses  its  grip."  He  took  the  manuscript  from  its 
wrapper  and  rapidly  turned  the  pages,  scanning  the 
text  with  keen  eyes.  "Now,  I  should  say  that  it's 
about  here  that  you  fall  away."  He  laid  his  sturdy 
forefinger,  within-  a  few  sentences,  upon  the  point  in 
the  narrative  which  should  have  been  followed  by 
those  "little  pages"  which  the  soft  goddess  had 
buried  for  ever  in  the  limbo  of  forgotten  things. 

"Good  lord!"  said  Norman. 

"What's  the  matter?" — looking  up  sharply. 
242 


MR  AND   MRS   VILLIERS 

"A  coincidence,"  replied  Norman,  "nothing 
more.  What  do  you  want  me  to  do?" 

"This  is  the  position,  my  dear  fellow,"  said 
Thornton,  turning  a  friendly  glance  upon  the  nov- 
elist. "We  are  willing  to  bring  this  out  in  its  pres- 
ent form,  upon  the  old  terms,  if  you  press  us. 
Your  reputation  will  guarantee  us  against  loss.  We 
don't  want  to  kill  the  goose,  but  at  any  rate  it 
would  leave  us  an  egg  to  pay  the  funeral  expenses. 
On  the  other  hand,  I  strongly  urge  you — not  as 
your  publisher,  but  as  your  friend — not  to 
press  us."  He  tapped  the  manuscript  with  his  fin- 
ger. "Your  name  would  sell  this;  but,  afterwards, 
it  wouldn't  sell  the  next.  Take  my  word  for  it." 

"What  is  the  alternative?"  said  Norman, 
quietly.  "Do  you  want  me  to  alter  it?" 

"There's  nothing  to  alter,"  said  Thornton. 
"The  general  plan  is  sound  enough,  and  I  don't 
quarrel  with  any  particular  passage.  It's  simply 
that  this  latter  part  is  not  living — it's  not  moving. 
You  know  what  I  mean?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Norman,  hopelessly  enough. 

He  knew,  in  addition,  that  it  was  the  most 
damning  indictment  that  could  be  brought  against 
an  imaginative  writer.  A  technical  fault,  some. 


MR  AND   MRS   VILLIERS 

slackness  of  phrase,  looseness  of  style,  could  be 
attacked  with  reasonable  hope  of  remedy;  but 
that  indefinite,  indefinable  something  which  gives 
reality  to  creative  work,  which  removes  it  from 
the  domain  of  academic  composition  and  breathes 
throbbing  life  into  it,  which  comes  unsought,  un- 
known, and  which,  in  spite  of  Carlyle's  dictum,  not 
any  capacity  for  taking  pains  can  acquire — if  that 
had  gone,  what  hope  remained? 

Thornton  watched  the  novelist,  as  he  sat  staring 
gloomily  in  front  of  him,  closely  and  with  not  a 
little  concern.  He  noticed  the  change  in  him,  and 
he  found  it  difficult,  in  the  face  of  that  change,  to 
say  what  he  had  come  to  say.  The  fact  that  his 
lot  had  been  cast  in  lines  where  the  performance  of 
ungrateful  tasks  was  .almost  part  of  his  daily  work, 
had  not  made  them  less  so.  He  carefully  divided 
the  manuscript  on  his  knee  into  two  about  equal 
halves.  One  he  placed  upon  the  table;  the  other 
he  held  out  to  Villiers.  His  vigorous  face  ex- 
pressed deep  earnestness,  and  even  some  emotion. 

"Half  measures  are  no  good,  Villiers,"  he  said. 
"Burn  it." 

Norman  turned  pale.  "Do  you  know  what  that 
means?"  he  said. 

244 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

"Months  of  work,"  said  Thornton.  "Three, 
four,  five.  I'm  not  talking  lightly,  my  dear  fellow. 
I've  watched  your  career  since  you  first  started  this 
sort  of  work,  and  I  take  as  much  interest  in  it  as 
any  man  living — perhaps  a  trifle  more.  It's  my 
firm  belief  that,  if  you  can  keep  true  to  yourself, 
you  ought  to  go  very  far.  I  tell  you  honestly,  I 
would  rather  bring  out  two  ordinary  failures  than 
give  that  book  to  the  world  with  your  name  on  it." 

Norman  took  the  manuscript  and  turned  the 
pages  abstractedly.  Suddenly  he  threw  it  into  a 
corner.  "I  won't  burn  it,"  he  said.  "That's  too 
big  a  dose  to  swallow  all  at  once.  But  it  shall  lie 
there,  and  unless  I  die  or  go  mad,  I'll  have  another 
shot." 

"Bravo!"  cried  Thornton,  with  genuine  enthusi- 
asm, springing  up  from  his  chair.  "There's  noth- 
ing takes  you  so  far  in  this  world  as  pluck." 

"Except  cheek,"  said  Norman. 

"No,  no;  cheek  starts  you,  but  pluck  carries  you 
through.  You'll  do  it,  my  boy.  Give  yourself  a 
fair  chance;  that's  all  you  want."  He  waved  his 
hand  at  the  pile  in  the  corner.  "That  wasn't 
written" — he  was  going  to  say  "in  happy  condi- 
tions," and  he  would  have  liked  to  have  done  so, 

245 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

would  have  liked,  moreover,  to  throw  out  a 
friendly  hint  that  a  return  to  the  environment  in 
which  his  previous  books  had  been  produced  might 
benefit  his  work;  but  Norman's  face  offered  no  en- 
couragement to  an  incursion  into  his  private  affairs, 
so  the  publisher  concluded  the  sentence — "when'  you 
felt  in  the  vein  for  it." 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  Norman,  "but  if  you  wait 
for  the  vein,  you  may  wait  for  ever  sometimes." 

Thornton  picked  up  his  hat.  "There's  just  one 
other  thing  before  I  go,  Villiers,"  he  said.  "The 
last  time  I  saw  you,  you  hinted  that  money  matters 
were  a  trifle  out  of  gear.  I'm  sorry  for  that.  Can 
we  do  anything  for  you?  Would  you  like  some 
reading? 

In  his  brusque  kind-heartedness,  the  publisher 
had  put  the  matter  a  little  less  delicately  than  he 
might  have  done.  Norman's  pride  was  instantly 
up  in  arms. 

"Many  thanks,"  he  said,  almost  coldly.  "There 
is  no  necessity  for  that." 

"Just  as  you  like,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  Thorn- 
ton, without  abating  a  jot  of  his  goodwill.  "It 
struck  me  it  might  be  a  temporary  help."  He 
moved  briskly  to  the  door.  "I  got  the  MS.  of  a 

246 


novel  this  morning  from  a  well-known  barrister, 
writing  anonymously.  I  should  really  like  your 
opinion.  Won't  you  let  me  send  it  to  you?  No? 
Very  well.  Good-bye,  old  fellow.  Mix  work  and 
play  judiciously.  We  must  have  the  book  ready 
for  the  autumn  season,  remember." 

He  had  barely  gone  when  Villiers  realised  his 
mistake;  if,  indeed,  it  can  be  said  that  he  had  not 
realised  it  throughout,  and  deliberately  let  his  pride 
ride  rough-shod  over  his  prudence.  When  neces- 
sity makes  its  first  insidious,  unwelcome  advances, 
we  are  most  of  us  tempted  to  take  the  high  horse; 
it  is  only  when  it  has  become  a  constant  compan- 
ion that  we  are  able  to  humble  ourselves  and  look 
it  demurely  in  the  face. 

Norman  saw,  when  it  was  too  late,  that  he  was 
no  longer  in  a  position  to  give  himself  airs  upon 
the  subject  of  his  financial  position.  Thornton's 
verdict  on  his  novel,  and  the  consequent  postpone- 
ment of  the  revenues  to  be  derived  from  it,  would 
be  a  very  serious  handicap.  During  the  next  two 
or  three  weeks  it  was  borne  in  upon  him,  with  in- 
creasing conviction,  that  the  time  was  probably  not 
far  distant  when  he  would  be  compelled  to  eat 
humble  pie  offered  with  a  far  less  considerate  hand 


MR  AND   MRS   VILLIERS 

than  by  his  publisher.  It  added  to  his  annoyance 
that  the  reading  of  MSS.  was  a  task  which  of  it- 
self contained  nothing  derogatory,  to  which  he 
had  no  aversion,  and  which  he  felt  himself  peculiar- 
ly fitted  to  undertake.  Once  or  twice  he  was  al- 
most brought  to  the  point  of  writing  to  Thornton, 
asking  for  permission  to  change  his  mind.  But  it 
is  difficult  to  eat  your  words  with  dignity;  and  to 
do  it  otherwise  he  was  not  yet  sufficiently  reduced. 

Matters  were  so  far  pressing,  however,  that  for 
the  moment  the  resumption  of  the  novel  was  out 
of  the  question.  He  wrote  two  or  three  stories 
for  popular  magazines,  which  did  his  reputation  no 
good.  Moreover,  the  income  derivable  from  this 
source  was,  to  say  the  least,  casual  and  intermittent. 
Also,  the  field  was  limited,  as  he  began  to  discover. 
Nevertheless,  with  the  idea  of  steadying  his  returns, 
he  wrote  to  two  editors,  suggesting  a  series  of  stories 
upon  a  subject  which  he  did  not  name,  and  of 
which,  to  be  quite  truthful,  he  had  not,  at  the  mo- 
ment of  writing,  the  faintest  idea. 

At  the  same  time,  he  found  it  possible  and 
prudent  to  make  some  reduction  of  his  by  no  means 
extravagant  domestic  expenditure.  For  instance, 
since  he  was  rarely  dressed  before  ten,  and  his  ap- 

248 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

petite  showed  no  signs  of  becoming  less  spasmodic, 
it  was  an  obvious  economy,  as  well  as  a  convenience, 
to  blend  breakfast  and  lunch  in  a  single  meal.  In 
no  respect,  for  that  matter,  was  there  any  indica- 
tion of  an  improvement  in  his  health:  indeed,  it 
grew  steadily  worse.  There  were  days  when  the 
writing  on  the  wall  was  expressed  in  letters  so  large 
as  to  alarm  him.  He  had  little  faith  in  medical 
men;  and  the  price  of  their  advice  was  a  matter 
which  had  now  to  be  seriously  taken  into  account. 
At  last,  however,  after  an  attack  of  palpitation 
which  left  him  almost  prostrate,  he  consulted  one, 
and  was  given  a  tonic  and  recommended  a  change 
of  air. 

During  this  time,  it  must  be  said  to  his  credit,  he 
was  not  once  tempted  to  reduce  his  allowance  to  his 
wife.  He  regarded  that,  to  all  intents  and  pur- 
poses, as  money  which  did  not  belong  to  him  and 
over  which  he  had  no  control.  As  for  Marjorie 
herself,  it  would  never  occur  to  her  to  imagine  him 
in  want.  She  assumed  a  sufficiency  of  means,  in 
herself  and  those  about  her,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
like  light  and  darkness  and  the  procession  of  the 
seasons.  Norman  was  well  aware  of  this  happy 
outlook  of  hers,  and  it  was  his  knowledge  of  it  and 

249 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

his  anxiety  to  save  her,  as  far  as  lay  in  his  power, 
the  shock  of  disillusionment,  which  had  weighed 
with  him,  almost  more  than  anything  else,  to  fix  her 
allowance  at  the  utmost  limit  of  his  disposable  in- 
come. 

He  continued  to  see  Rosamond  daily — or  ought 
we  to  say  nightly?  Indeed,  as  the  days  went  on, 
he  got  into  the  habit  of  slipping  across  the  landing 
that  divided  their  suites  with  greater  and  greater 
frequency.  For  he  found  that  her  society  was  the 
only  thing  which  relieved  him  for  a  time  from  the 
depressing  companionship  of  his  own  thoughts. 
What  though  those  thoughts  returned  with  more 
stinging  insistence  after  each  visit?  Was  not  the 
opiate  constantly  at  hand  to  be  re-administered? 
What  though  the  effective  dose  became  larger? 
Was  there  a  hint  as  yet  that  the  supply  was  ex- 
haustible? 

He  had  few  other  distractions  in  these  days:  an 
occasional  visit  to  his  club,  a  hand  at  bridge  at 
fivepence  a  hundred,  if  he  was  needed  to  make  up, 
a  humble  seat  now  and  then  at  a  good  instrumental 
concert.  His  circle  of  friends  was  not  a  large  one. 
He  made  them  slowly,  but  stuck  loyally  to  those 
he  found  sympathetic.  Lately,  however,  he  had 

850 


MR  AND  MRS  VILLIEES 

seen  less  even  of  these.  It  was  not  their  fault,  but 
his  own.  He  did  not  analyse  his  reasons;  indeed, 
it  came  upon  him  in  the  nature  of  a  shock,  one  day, 
to  awake  to  the  fact  that  he  was  gradually  allowing 
them  to  slide ;  much  as  it  had  done  when  he  realised 
that  he  was  not  prepared  for  Marion  to  offer  him 
her  hand. 

The  ordinary  froth  of  the  social  whirlpool  he 
had  never  taken  the  least  trouble  to  cultivate.  To 
a  man  of  original  mind  there  is  nothing  more  irri- 
tating than  the  society  and  conversation  of  people 
of  the  unimaginative,  orthodox  stamp,  people  who 
accept  the  views  of  their  fathers  upon  every  sub- 
ject under  the  sun,  who  have  been  "taught  to 
think,"  and  who  think  accordingly.  In  his  cynical 
moods,  which,  to  do  him  justice,  were  not  frequent, 
he  used  to  say  that  one  only  met  two  types  in  casual 
social  intercourse :  those  with  bodies  and  no  brains, 
and  those  with  brains  and  no  bodies;  and  that  the 
second  were  the  worst.  Indubitably,  if  it  is  possible 
to  conceive  anything  more  boring  than  a  talkative 
person  without  intellect,  it  is  one  whose  intellect 
is  unleavened  by  human  nature. 

While  upon  the  subject  of  Norman's  personal 
tastes  and  habits,  we  may  conclude  by  admitting 

251 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIEES 

that  he  was  not  what  is  called  a  "sportsman."  That 
is  to  say,  he  took  no  pleasure  in  any  form  of  recrea- 
tion involving  cruelty.  I  don't  know  if  it  has  oc- 
curred to  you,  reader,  but  it  has  sometimes  oc- 
curred to  me,  that  this  civilisation  of  ours  is  really 
rather  a  superficial  business,  a  matter  of  "cumu- 
lated refinement,"  when  so  large  a  proportion  of 
humanity  is  never  quite  happy  unless  it  is  killing 
something.  It  may  be  a  fox  to  hunt,  a  bird  to 
shoot,  a  salmon  to  play,  a  hare  to  course,  but  some- 
thing there  must  be  to  kill,  perhaps  to  torture  and 
kill,  to  secure  the  earthly  peace  of  great  numbers  of 
reasonably  humane,  large-hearted  men;  and  of  a 
few — let  it  be  written  small — women.  Our  per- 
ceptions will  fine  in  time,  no  doubt;  even  to  the 
point  of  recognising  that  a  fox  running  into  a  farm- 
house scullery  to  escape  its  pursuers  is  not  neces- 
sarily a  humorous  incident,  or  an  ideal  subject  for  a 
comic  Christmas  illustration,  and  that  that  strained 
beast  has  not  rushed  for  protection  to  the  haunts 
of  its  natural  enemies  until  it  has  endured  the  last 
agonies  of  mortal  fear. 


252 


CHAPTER  XXII 

ALL  days  were  much  alike  to  Norman  at  this 
time.  One  morning,  however,  a  little  more  than  a 
fortnight  after  Thornton's  visit,  he  found  two  let- 
ters waiting  for  him  which  were  of  sufficient  im- 
portance to  distinguish  the  day  from  its  fellows. 
The  first  was  from  one  of  the  magazine  editors  to 
whom  he  had  written,  politely  thanking  him  for 
his  offer  to  write  a  series  of  stories,  but  regretting 
that  his  arrangements  for  the  year  were  already 
fully  made.  Villiers  threw  it  aside — it  reminded 
him  of  his  first  tentative  efforts  in  journalism — 
and  took  up  the  second.  It  was  from  Mr  Spindle, 
intimating  that  he  wished  to  have  some  conversa- 
tion with  him,  and  expressing  the  hope  that  his 
client  might  find  it  convenient  to  call  upon  him  at 
an  early  date. 

All  dates  were  convenient  to  Norman  just  now. 
The  blow  of  Thornton's  judgment  on  his  novel, 

253 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

coming  on  top  of  his  previous  depression  of  mind, 
and  combining  with  his  indifferent  health,  had 
driven  him  into  a  listless,  aimless  habit  of  life,  from 
which  he  had  almost  given  up  the  attempt  to  rouse 
himself.  Accordingly,  he  picked  up  his  hat  and 
sallied  forth  there  and  then  to  visit  the  solicitor. 
It  was  noticeable  that,  as  he  walked  through  the 
streets,  he  kept  a  defensive  eye  on  the  alert  against 
chance  acquaintances;  and  once,  on  perceiving  the 
approach  of  a  man  he  knew  slightly,  he  affected  to 
be  engrossed  by  the  contents  of  a  shop-window 
containing  an  interesting  selection  of  children's 
undergarments. 

He  found  Mr  Spindle  in  what  was  for  him  quite 
a  genial  mood.  His  greeting  was  still  cursory,  but 
appreciably  more  human  than  usual.  He  invited 
Norman  to  be  seated,  and  accommodated  himself, 
as  was  his  custom,  with  the  edge  of  a  chair,  leaning 
one  elbow  on  the  arm  and  the  other  on  his  desk. 
It  sometimes  occurred  to  Norman  to  wonder  if  he 
took  his  meals  sitting  on  the  edge  of  a  chair.  Cer- 
tainly it  was  impossible  to  conceive  him  disposed 
in  one  with  any  approach  to  comfort.  He  picked 
up  from  his  desk  a  small  sheaf  of  papers  pinned 
together, 

254, 


"Well,  Mr  Villiers,"  he  said,  "the  other  side  has 
moved." 

"The  other  side"  was  Marjorie.  That  Norman 
understood. 

"I  am  quite  prepared  to  hear  that,"  said  he. 

"But  possibly  you  don't  appreciate  the  legal 
process  that  will  be  necessary,"  said  Mr  Spindle. 
"A  suit  for  divorce  on  the  petition  of  the  wife  is 
apt  to  be  a  tedious  proceeding." 

He  continued  to  look  contented.  His  face  was 
one  which  was  incapable  of  expressing  any  feeling 
upon  a  matter  in  his  mind  other  than  as  it  affected 
himself,  even  when  he  attempted  it — which  on  the 
present  occasion  he  did  not.  Brisk  and  business- 
like in  detail  as  he  was,  a  tedious  legal  proceeding 
was  not  a  matter  to  which  he  had  any  professional 
objection. 

"Yes?"  said  Norman. 

"To  begin  with,"  explained  the  solicitor,  "Mrs 
Villiers  is  bringing  an  action  against  you  for  resti- 
tution of  conjugal  rights." 

Norman  could  not  restrain  rather  a  grim  smile. 
The  irony  appeared  almost  grotesque. 

"She  will  obtain  an  order,"  proceeded  the  law- 
yer, "which  you  will  not  obey;  and  that  will  con- 

255 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

stitute  legal  desertion,  and  entitle  her  to  proceed 
against  you  for  divorce — on  the  grounds,  of  course, 
of  desertion  and  adultery." 

He  said  it  in  the  same  tone  in  which  he  had  asked 
his  client  to  take  a  seat. 

"In  regard  to  the  latter,"  he  added,  "I  under- 
stand there  is  at  present  no  evidence  beyond  your 
own  admission.  The  Court  will  decline  to  act  upon 
that  without  corroboration."  He  cocked  his  eye- 
glass— and  was  it  a  smile  that  accompanied  the 
action,  or  only  a  contortion  of  his  features  required 
to  screw  the  monocle  more  effectually  into  position  ? 
"A  few  days  at  Brighton  at  this  time  of  year  would 
be  a  pleasant  holiday,"  he  said. 

"I  must  be  assured,"  said  Norman,  firmly,  "that 
no  name  will  be  dragged  into  this  case  except  my 
own." 

"No  doubt  that  can  be  avoided." 

"It  must  be  avoided,"  said  Norman.  "Other- 
wise I  can  take  no  step." 

"It  is  a  question  for  the  other  side,"  said  Mr 
Spindle.  "They  are  not  likely  to  press  it.  You 
must  understand  I  am  not  asking  you  to  take  any 
step." 

256 


MR  AND   MRS   VILLIERS 

"Quite  so,"  said  Norman.  "I  gather  from  what 
you  have  been  saying  that  there  will  be  two  trials?" 

"Precisely." 

Norman  hesitated.  "Can  you  give  me  an  idea 
of  the  probable  cost?" 

Mr  Spindle  did  not  like  the  question.  It  sav- 
oured of  an  economical  spirit  which  was  not  grate- 
ful to  him. 

"The  costs  on  our  side,"  he  said,  "as  the  case  is 
undefended,  will  not  be  considerable.  Those  of 
Mrs  Villiers,  of  course,  will  be  somewhat  heavier." 

"I  shall  have  to  pay  them?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

Norman  had  an  idea  that  Mr  Spindle  might  have 
to  whistle  a  little  longer  than  he  would  find  to  his 
taste. 

"When  is  the  action  likely  to  be  heard?"  he 
asked. 

Mr  Spindle  meditated.  "The  business  of  the 
Division  is  a  good  deal  congested  at  present,"  he 
said,  "but,  with  luck,  we  ought  to  get  it  through 
before  the  recess." 

"That  is?" 

"Before  August." 

"And  the  divorce?" 

257 


"Oh,"  said  Mr  Spindle,  vaguely,,  "hardly  this 
year,  I'm  afraid." 

He  had  risen.  Evidently  he  considered  the  in- 
terview at  an  end :  his  mind  had»  already  flown  to 
other  subjects. 

"I  think  that  is  all  I  can  tell  you  at  present,  Mr 
Villiers,"  he  said.  "I  will  keep  you  informed  of 
developments." 

His  client  was  scarcely  out  of  the  door  before  he 
had  whistled  up  a  tube  beside  his  desk  and  was 
listening  impatiently  with  his  ear  on  the  aperture. 

Turning  out  of  Bedford  Row,  Villiers  descended 
into  the  billiard-rooms  of  the  First  Avenue  Hotel. 
As  he  passed  through  the  first  room,  he  heard  his 
name  uttered  in  a  low  tone  by  a  stranger,  an  ex- 
perience frequent  enough  at  one  time,  but  not  com- 
mon of  late.  Formerly  it  had  been  wont  to  cause 
him  slight,  unreasoning  annoyance;  to-day  it  gave 
him  distinct  pleasure.  It  recalled  the  days  of  his 
early  success.  A  perceptible  thrill  ran  through 
him,  and  he  went  on  into  the  principal  room  with 
his  head  higher  and  something  of  his  old  confident 
bearing.  The  condemned  half  of  his  book  should 
be  done  again,  and  done  well.  He  ordered  a  cup 
of  coffee  and  some  biscuits,  and  for  an  hour  sat 

258 


MR   AND   MRS   FILLIERS 

and  watched  a  game  of  billiards,  feeling  more  spirit 
in  him  than  he  had  done  for  weeks.  Ambition, 
pride,  self-respect  returned  upon  him  with  a  gush : 
he  longed  to  get  back  among  his  fair  sheets,  his 
fingers  ached  to  clutch  the  pen — fingers  that  shook 
as  they  raised  the  coftee-cup. 

The  exaltation  continued  during  the  drive  home 
on  the  top  of  a  'bus;  but  it  received  something  of 
a  cold  douche  when  he  reached  his  room,  in  the 
shape  of  a  letter  from  the  second  of  his  editors. 
That  gentleman,  like  his  confrere,  regretted  that  he 
was  not  at  present  in  a  position  to  enter  into  nego- 
tiations upon  the  subject  of  a  series  of  stories,  but 
added  that  he  should  at  all  times  be  most  happy 
to  consider  contributions  from  Mr  Villiers;  and, 
to  acquaint  him  with  the  character  of  matter  re- 
quired, he  had  pleasure  in  enclosing  a  form  of  di- 
rections to  authors,  for  his  guidance.  The  form  in 
question  was  a  small  printed  slip,  to  this  effect: 

"Authors  are  courteously  informed  that  only 
stories  conforming  to  the  following  requirements 

can  be  considered  for    publication    in    the    

Magazine.  The  scene  should  be  laid  in  Great 
Britain,  at  the  present  day.  The  hero  should  be 

259 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

tall,  good-looking,  and  not  over  thirty  years  of  age. 
He  should  preferably  be  clean  shaven,  or,  at  least, 
wear  only  a  moustache.  The  heroine  should  be 
under  twenty-five  and  of  attractive  appearance.  It 
is  essential  that  the  character,  antecedents,  and  per- 
sonal habits  of  each  be  beyond  reproach :  nothing  in 
the  nature  of  a  'past'  can  be  entertained.  The  plot 
should  avoid  subjects  of  a  questionable  or  debatable 
nature.  In  dealing  with  vice,  the  author  should 
confine  himself  to  murders,  burglaries,  assaults,  and 
other  similar  forms  accepted  as  unobjectionable  by 
the  public.  Problems  of  sex,  in  any  guise,  are  in- 
admissible. If  it  is  necessary  to  touch  upon  relig- 
ion, the  characters  should  be  made  to  attend  the 
Church  of  England  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  not 
in  such  a  way  as  could  suggest  controversy.  It  is 
preferable  that  the  story  should  move  among  peo- 
ple of  good  social  position." 

Norman  crumpled  this  interesting  document  in 
his  hand  and  threw  it  into  the  waste-paper  basket. 
He  wondered  if  he  would  ever  sink  so  low  as  that. 
For  the  moment,  however,  it  effected  a  heavy  de- 
pression of  his  mental  barometer,  reacting  upon  the 
exceptional  exhilaration  of  the  last  hour  or  two. 

260 


He  was  again  face  to  face  with  the  squalid  and  de- 
testable question  of  ways  and  means.  How  much 
he  had  depended  upon  contributing  this  magazine 
matter  he  had  not  appreciated  until  the  facility  was 
denied.  It  was  now  almost  four  o'clock,  and  he 
suddenly  realised  that  he  was  very  tired.  He  sank 
wearily  into  a  low  chair  and  closed  his  eyes.  It 
appeared  only  for  a  moment  or  two;  but  when  he 
opened  them  again,  Rosamond  was  standing  over 
him.  He  had  not  heard  her  enter. 

She  sat  down  on  the  arm  of  his  chair  and  rumpled 
her  hand  through  his  hair.  "Do  you  know,  Nor- 
man," she  said,  gently,  "I'm  beginning  to  get  quite 
anxious  about  you.  You've  not  been  the  least  like 
yourself  lately.  There  is  something  on  your 
mind?" 

Norman  said  nothing. 

"Tell  me,"  said  Rosamond,  a  deeper  note  of  ten- 
derness in  her  voice;  "tell  me.  Perhaps  I  can  help 
you." 

"What  use  to  burden  you  with  my  troubles?" 
said  Norman,  taking  the  hand  that  lay  on  her  lap. 
"Your  pretty  shoulders  were  not  built  for  that." 

She  pressed  his  head  close  in  to  her.  "Trust  me, 
dear."  There  was  a  wonderful  charm — almost  a 

261 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

caress — in  Rosamond's  soft  utterance  of  words  of 
endearment.  She  gave  a  sudden  gay  laugh.  "Was 
I  ever  afraid  to  take  'the  white  man's  burden'  ?" 

Her  spirits  were  infectious.  Norman  put  an  arm 
round  her  waist.  "Dear  little  girl,"  he  said,  "you 
would  cheer  the  most  confirmed  hypochondriac  that 
ever  breathed." 

"At  any  rate,  I  should  try,"  said  Rosamond.  "I 
hate  melancholy  people." 

"Then  I  won't  be  melancholy,  for  your  sake," 
said  Norman,  with  sudden  briskness.  "Perhaps 
it's  as  well  you  should  know,"  he  added.  "It  may 
save  you  misunderstanding  things.  The  truth  is, 
Thornton's  rejection  of  the  book  has  been  a  blow 
to  me  in  more  ways  than  one.  At  present  I  don't 
see  my  way  very  clearly  on  the  practical  side  of 
life." 

"Do  you  mean  you  are  hard  up?"  said  Rosa- 
mond, plainly. 

Norman  nodded. 

"What  does  that  matter?  You've  got  a  gold 
mine  here."  She  tapped  his  head.  "You  can  draw 
a  draft  on  sermon-paper  that  will  be  cashed  at  sight 
by  any  office  that  uses  printing-ink." 

"I've  tried  that"  said  Norman:  "I've  been  liv- 
262 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

ing  on  it  for  the  last  month.  But  it's  a  casual  and 
unsatisfactory  business.  Besides,  it  needs  a  new 
and  brilliant  idea  every  time  you  put  pen  to  paper; 
and  ideas  are  not  very  exuberant  with  me  just  now, 
let  alone  brilliant  ones.  And  I'm  afraid,  old  girl, 
that  the  drafts  you  speak  of  by  no  means  pass  for 
coin  of  the  realm  in  every  quarter.  I've  had  two 
letters  from  magazine  editors  to-day,  declining  me 
anything  in  the  nature  of  continuous  work  of  this 
sort.  Still,"  he  added,  with  a  dry  laugh,  "I'm  not 
entitled  to  say  that  there's  no  market  for  my  work." 
He  rummaged  in  the  waste-paper  basket  for  the 
"Directions  to  Authors,"  smoothed  out  the  creases, 
and  handed  it  to  her.  "That  is  one  of  the  things 
I'm  asked  to  produce." 

Rosamond  read  the  paper,  and  her  face  flushed 
hotly.  She  crushed  it  in  her  little  hand  and  flung 
it  into  the  grate. 

"How  dare  he !"  she  cried. 

"There  is  no  personal  disparagement  implied," 
said  Norman,  mildly.  "If  Fielding  were  alive  and 
were  to  send  a  tale  dealing  with  realities  to  that 
magazine,  it  would  be  refused." 

Rosamond  said  nothing  more  for  a  few  minutes. 
263 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

She  picked  abstractedly  at  some  loose  threads  on 
the  sleeve  of  Norman's  coat. 

"Dearest,"  she  said  softly,  at  last,  "you  mustn't 
let  things  of  this  sort  worry  you.  Except  that  we 
are  not  conventional,  and  don't  intend  to  be,  you 
and  I  are  one.  And  I'm  making  a  splendid  income 
— far  more  than  I  can  possibly  spend — over  eight 
hundred  a  year." 

The  words  had  the  effect  of  an  electric  shock 
upon  Norman.  He  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"No!"  he  cried,  fiercely.  "No!  I'll  die,  I'll  rot 
beneath  ten  feet  of  clay,  before  it  comes  to  that, 
Rosamond." 

Rosamond  was  considerably  startled.  "What 
have  I  said?"  she  asked,  in  surprise.  "Why  have 
you  suddenly  flown  into  such  a  passion  ?" 

"Oh,  forgive  me,  dear,"  said  Norman,  recover- 
ing himself.  "I  don't  mistake  your  sweet,  loving 
generosity  and  kindness,  Heaven  knows.  It  is  the 
dearest  and  truest  offer  you  could  make  to  me,  and 
from  my  heart  I  thank  you.  But  you  know  your- 
self— you  fed  it  as  much  as  I  do — how  impossible 
it  is  for  me  to  accept  it.  You  have  always  refused 
to  take  the  smallest  present  from  me.  How  can  I, 

264 


MR   AND   MRS   FILLIERS 

then,  not  merely  do  that,  but  become  dependent 
upon  you  for  the  very  means  of  existence?" 

"But  if  I  were  starving,  I  would  let  you  provide 
for  me,"  pleaded  Rosamond. 

"I  doubt  it,"  said  Norman,  looking  at  her  close- 
ly. "Besides,  I'm  not  starving" — he  laughed  a 
little  bitterly — "not  quite." 

Rosamond  moved  towards  him  and  laid  a  white 
hand  on  each  of  his  shoulders.  Then,  stretching 
up,  she  brought  her  mouth  to  his  and  held  it  there. 

"Darling!"  she  murmured,  speaking  close  to  his 
lips.  "I  love  you  for  refusing.  I  love  you  for  get- 
ting angry.  It  seems  we  can't  defy  conventions. 
The  world  is  not  old  enough.  As  soon  as  you  are 
divorced,  I  will  marry  you." 

Norman  felt  the  lingering  touch  of  her  lips  long 
after  she  had  gone,  and  the  light  warmth  of  her 
breath,  and  the  soft  caress  of  her  bosom  as  it  had 
pressed  against  him.  Later  on,  during  the  evening, 
the  effect  of  that  sweet  opiate  wore  off,  and  he  re- 
turned upon  himself  with  a  shudder.  Whatever 
faint  mist  had  hitherto  blurred  the  reflection  he  saw 
in  his  mental  mirror  was  now  wiped  away.  All 
his  life  he  had  looked  upon  no  position  as  more  un- 
speakably contemptible  than  that  which  would  have 

265 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

been  his  had  he  accepted  Rosamond's  offer.  The 
only  man  whom  he  had  ever  declined  to  shake 
hands  with  was  one  whom  he  knew  to  occupy  it. 

The  whole  sordid  business  of  gold  and  its  equiva- 
lents, in  connection  with  the  tenderest  and  most 
exquisite  of  human  relations,  had  always  repelled 
him  exceedingly.  He  heartily  despised  the  woman 
who  will  take  a  kiss  if  it  is  accompanied  by  a  pres- 
ent of  commensurate  magnitude;  and  he  had  little 
respect  for  the  vast  army  of  men  who  do  the  other 
sex  the  scant  honour  of  supposing  that  the  way  to 
their  hearts  lies  through  their  cupidity.  And  now, 
who  was  he,  to  respect  or  condemn,  to  criticise  or 
cavil?  These  were  but  the  ripples  on  the  surface 
compared  with  the  depths  he  had  looked  into.  The 
cup  of  degradation,  brimming  with  full  measure, 
if  he  had  not  drunk,  at  least  had  been  held  to  his 
lips  till  its  sickly  odour  filled  his  nostrils. 

He  paced  up  and  down  his  room  in  a  torment  of 
self-chastisement.  He  must  get  back — back  to  his 
old  life,  to  his  old  self.  And  the  way  lay  through 
three  hundred  manuscript  pages.  He  made  a 
feverish  calculation.  By  slogging  work  he  had 
sometimes  done  ten  pages  in  a  day.  Thirty  days, 

2C6 


at  that  rate,  and  it  was  finished.    And  he  could  live 
for  a  month! 

The  fit  hot  on  him,  he  lighted  his  table-lamp  and 
switched  off  the  electric  light;  then  went  to  a  cup- 
board— the  same  from  which  Marjorie  had  ex- 
tracted the  Sigea — and  took  out  the  earlier,  ap- 
proved half  of  his  manuscript.  He  threw  it  on  the 
table  and  eagerly,  hurriedly  read  through  the  last 
chapter.  It  was  good;  it  was  up  to  his  standard: 
he  would  see  that  he  didn't  fall  away.  Then  he 
took  a  clean  sheet  of  paper.  His  pen  stuck  and 
spluttered  in  it.  He  threw  away  the  sheet  and  took 
another,  and  with  trembling  fingers  wrote  "Chap- 
ter XVI."  across  the  top  of  it. 


267 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

Six  hours  later,  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
Norman  closed  the  door  of  No.  1 2  and  crept  across 
the  landing  to  his  own  suite.  The  lamp  had  been 
smoking  in  his  room,  and  the  air  was  filled  with 
the  fumes  of  burnt  oil.  Except  that  it  was  covered 
with  black  smuts,  the  sheet  on  his  table  still  con- 
tained nothing  but  the  "Chapter  XVI."  at  the  top. 

He  placed  his  arms  on  the  mantelpiece  and  leant 
heavily  upon  it,  covering  his  eyes  with  his  hands, 
partly  to  ease  his  aching  head,  partly  to  shut  out 
his  reflection  in  the  mirror.  Shall  we  condemn  him 
as  he  stood  there — broken,  spiritless,  physically  ill, 
with  haggard  eyes,  untidy  hair,  clothes  cursorily 
and  carelessly  adjusted,  all  his  high  aspirations  of 
six  hours  ago  vanished  into  choking  oil  fumes?  If 
we  do,  it  will  not  be  with  half  the  fervour  that  he 
condemned  himself.  He  wondered  if  anyone,  since 
the  world  began,  had  hated  himself  with  the  ab- 
sorbing strength  that  he  did  at  that  moment. 

268 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

After  a  time  he  turned  round  and  mixed  him- 
self some  whisky-and-water,  considerably  stronger 
than  he  was  accustomed  to  take  it.  His  temperate 
use  of  alcohol  at  least  had  left  him  with  the  power 
to  respond  normally  to  the  stimulant.  The  blood 
stirred  in  his  veins;  the  depression  on  his  spirit 
slightly  lifted.  What  was  he  to  do  next?  He  could 
not  sleep.  Still  less  could  he  remain  in  that  cheer- 
less room,  with  its  chilling  reproach  in  every  article 
his  eyes  rested  upon.  He  took  his  hat  and  de- 
scended the  stairs.  Without  any  definite  purpose 
in  his  mind,  he  quietly  unbolted  the  main  door  and 
let  himself  out.  The  night  was  fine;  a  few  stars 
shone  above  the  long  lines  of  roofs.  His  footsteps 
sounded  hollow  in  the  pervading  stillness. 

He  turned  north,  through  Kensington  Gore,  up 
Netting  Hill  to  Paddington.  He  wandered  aim- 
lessly into  the  great  station — almost  silent  now — 
then  out  again,  and  eastward  along  the  Uxbridge 
Road.  At  the  Marble  Arch  his  steps  once  more 
took  him  northward,  along  the  Euston  Road,  and 
up  into  Islington  and  Holloway.  He  knew  not 
and  cared  not  where  he  went.  At  times  his  mind 
ran  riot,  in  a  frenzy  of  self-hatred,  alternating  with 
periods  of  intense  gloom,  when  he  would  walk  for 

269 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIEES 

a  mile  or  more  with  his  brain  a  dull,  dead  blank; 
feeling  nothing,  knowing  nothing,  striding  mechani- 
cally on,  on. 

Some  hours,  it  seemed  to  him,  after  he  started, 
he  found  himself  in  Gray's  Inn  Road,  facing  south. 
The  street  was  familiar,  and  he  looked  at  his  watch. 
It  had  stopped.  He  went  on,  across  Holborn  and 
the  Strand,  and,  just  as  dawn  was  breaking,  came 
out  on  the  Embankment.  Here  he  halted  and  leant 
heavily  upon  the  parapet.  A  solitary  policeman, 
moving  slowly  along,  turned  his  light  on  him  and 
passed  on.  Oh,  how  tired  he  was !  He  looked  into 
the  thick  stream.  Many  had  found  rest  there.  His 
brain  stirred,  moved. — Many! — Many! 

He  had  found  his  way  to  this  spot  by  the  purest 
chance,  without  any  thought  of  suicide.  The 
temptation  came  upon  him  unexpectedly,  but  with 
tremendous  force.  One  moment  it  had  not  touched 
him;  the  next  he  was  struggling  in  its  spell,  striv- 
ing with  all  his  might  to  close  his  ears  to  its  subtly 
honeyed  suggestions.  Down  in  that  slowly  moving 
water  there  was  no  pain,  only  peace,  peace  and 
oblivion.  And,  surely,  what  else  mattered?  Why 
go  on  with  the  struggle?  Why  be  subject,  of  your 
own  free  choice,  to  these  violent  human  passions 

270 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

that  led  to  nothing  but  misery,  both  in  the  resist- 
ance and  in  the  gratification?  Who  was  there  to 
regret  him?  Rosamond?  For  a  few  weeks,  per- 
haps. Marjorie?  He  was  lost  to  Marjorie  in 
any  case,  and  she  would  be  happier  a  widow  than 
divorced.  He  clung  to  the  parapet.  For  the  mo- 
ment he  seemed  to  be  in  the  power  of  some  external 
compelling  force  greater  than  his  own. 

At  last,  with  a  violent  effort,  he  mastered  him- 
self and  turned  away.  Who  were  they — these  poor 
creatures  who  had  gone  before?  Distraught  serv- 
ant-girls, frenzied  lovers  half  mad  from  their  birth. 
Not  such  as  he — a  man  of  the  world,  of  intellect. 
A  great  writer!  He  held  himself  erect.  A  man 
who  had  moved  the  hearts,  and  stirred  the  blood, 
and  swayed  the  minds  of  thousands  of  his  fellow- 
men.  No,  he  was  not  going  to  throw  up  the 
sponge.  He  could  still  get  back.  One  day  had 
been  lost,  only  one.  "Thirty  days  hath  September, 
April,  June  and  November."  Not  May;  and  it 
was  May  now :  he  could  still  do  it  in  a  month.  He 
turned  his  flagging  steps  westward,  homeward. 

Passing  through  Pimlico,  he  met  several  groups 
of  labourers  starting  for  their  work,  with  basses 
slung  over  their  shoulders.  He  did  not  wish  him- 

271 


MR  AND  MRS   VILL1ERS 

self  in  their  place — a  cultured  mind,  however 
harassed,  even  by  reason  of  that  very  culture,  can- 
not deliberately  wish  itself  debased — but  he  looked 
at  them  with  some  feeling  akin  to  envy,  as  they 
hunched  vigorously  on  their  way,  loudly  proclaim- 
ing the  paucity  of  their  vocabulary  by  the  monot- 
onous and  distressing,  but  not  blasphemous,  use  of 
a  single  inappropriate  adjective.  Not  one  of  them, 
probably,  could  write  a  grammatical  sentence,  but 
they  were  cheerful  and  contented;  each  of  their 
days  was  rounded  off,  sufficient,  complete.  Life 
for  them  contained  no  weary  straining  after 
phrases,  no  lying  awake  in  bed  turning  sentences — 
sentences  that  got  wilder  as  the  brain  got  wearier — 
no  daily  disappointment  of  unsatisfied  ideals.  Their 
work  was  done  by  time,  and  when  the  time  was 
over,  whatever  had  been  born  of  it,  peace,  content, 
a  day's  work  done;  no  worrying  the  night  through 
that  the  corner  of  the  brick  was  slightly  out  of 
plumb.  Far  other  conditions  applied  to  him.  His 
was  piece-work,  and  piece-work  demanding  always 
to  be  turned  out  of  the  finest  temper  under  the  piti- 
less surveillance  of  his  own  mind,  which  was  task- 
master and  workman  in  one,  but  whose  critical  fac- 
ulty exceeded  its  productive,  and  which,  illogically, 

272 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

refused  to  be  appeased  by  the  utmost  it  could  itself 
accomplish.  It  seemed  to  him,  just  then,  that  it 
would  be  a  lighter  task  to  lay  bricks  on  mortar  for 
ever  than  to  write  fifty  thousand  words  in  a  month. 
Fagged  out,  he  reached  his  rooms  about  seven 
o'clock  and  flung  himself  down  on  his  bed,  dressed 
as  he  was.  He  slept  uneasily  until  the  afternoon. 
About  half-past  six  he  rang  for  some  dinner.  It 
was  the  first  food  he  had  touched  that  day;  but  he 
was  not  hungry.  He  sometimes  wondered  if  he 
should  ever  be  hungry  again.  Subsequently  he  sat 
down  at  his  writing-table.  The  smutted  sheet  was 
still  on  the  blotting-pad,  all  smeared  now  from  a 
housemaid's  offices.  He  crushed  it  rather  viciously 
into  a  ball  and  dropped  it  with  relief  into  the  waste- 
paper  basket. 

With  infinite  labour  he  wrote  a  page.  Then  he 
compared  it  with  the  corresponding  page  of  the 
previous  manuscript.  With  sickening  depression 
he  realised  that  it  was  worse  than  before.  What 
was  more,  he  knew  that  it  must  be  worse.  He  was 
not  fit  to  work.  Suddenly  it  came  over  him  that 
he  was  going  to  be  ill.  Something  was  thumping 
at  the  back  of  his  head  and  his  eyes  felt  like  lead. 

He  glanced  at  the  clock.  It  was  after  ten.  It 
273 


MR  AND  MRS   riLLIERS 

had  taken  him  two  hours  and  a  half  to  write  a  single 
page.  Two  hours  and  a  half!  And  a  page  worse 
than  the  rejected  of  his  friend  Thornton!  God, 
what  was  he  coming  to?  He  had  not  drawn  the 
curtains,  and  the  window  in  front  of  him  reflected 
the  room  and  himself,  out  of  faintly  luminous 
blackness,  patterned  in  diamonds.  He  rested  his 
elbows  on  the  table  and  his  cheeks  in  his  hands  and 
stared  out,  out — into  the  future. 

He  turned  at  the  sound  of  a  footstep.    The  door 
had  opened  and  closed,  and  Rosamond  had  entered. 


274 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

ROSAMOND  was  wearing  a  soft  dressing-gown  of 
that  delicate  shade  of  mauve  which  she  herself 
would  have  described  as  "conceived  in  its  tenderest 
distress."  It  was  slightly  open  at  the  front,  reveal- 
ing the  frillings  of  her  night-dress.  She  looked 
very  lovely:  her  dark  hair,  caught  up  in  a  big  bunch 
behind  her  head,  contrasting  with  her  white,  firm 
throat;  a  bright  glow  in  her  soft  eyes,  a  slight  ac- 
cess of  colour  in  her  smooth  cheeks. 

"Working  again !"  she  said,  with  simulated  im- 
patience. "Always  working!" 

"I've  only  just  begun,"  said  Norman,  in  a  spirit- 
less tone.  "I  was  out  all  night." 

"What  were  you  doing?" 

"Walking,"  said  Norman,  "walking — walking 
— walking." 

"What  a  ridiculous  thing  to  do  in  the  middle  of 
the  night!"  She  gave  a  quick  little  laugh.  "Where 
did  you  walk  to?  Come — make  room.  I  want 
you  to  nurse  me." 

275 


Norman  pushed  his  chair  back  obediently,  but 
with  an  effort  that  made  his  head  throb  more 
violently  and  started  a  drumming  in  his  ears.  Rosa- 
mond squeezed  between  him  and  the  table  and 
perched  upon  his  knee.  He  put  his  arm  round  her 
half  mechanically,  with  a  slight  sigh,  more  of 
physical  weariness  than  of  content.  But  at  the 
touch  of  her  supple  form,  innocent  of  corset,  sepa- 
rated from  his  arm  only  by  the  softest  and  thinnest 
of  coverings,  the  blood  leapt  to  his  cheek;  and 
Rosamond  knew  it.  Ill  as  he  was,  worn  out  body 
and  spirit,  his  nerves  flagged,  jaded,  almost 
atrophied,  lost  to  all  feeling  but  that  ceaseless  thud- 
ding in  his  head,  the  sense  of  sex  still  answered  to 
the  call  upon  it,  still  jumped  at  the  spur,  like  an 
outridden  horse. 

She  nestled  close  in  to  him  happily.  "Where  did 
you  walk  to?"  she  asked  again,  resting  her  cheek 
upon  his  thick  hair. 

"Oh,  I  hardly  know,"  said  Norman.  "I  went 
to  lots  of  stations — St  Pancras,  King's  Cross." 

"Good  gracious,  why?" 

"To  see  the  trains  start,"  said  Norman,  dully: 
"the  night  expresses.  It's  rather  interesting." 

"You  went  from  here  to  St  Pancras  in  the  middle 
276 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

of  the  night  to  see  the  trains  start!"  Rosamond 
laughed  incredulously,  and  gave  his  head  an  affec- 
tionate, scolding  shake  between  her  soft  palms.  She 
little  knew  what  pain  it  caused  him.  "You  must 
think  of  a  better  reason  than  that,  old  boy." 

Then,  apparently  fancying  she  might  be  mis- 
understood, she  clasped  her  arms  tenderly  about 
him  and  held  him  close.  "Oh,  I  trust  you,  dear." 
And  again  there  was  that  exquisite  low  caress  in 
the  last  word. 

Norman  said  nothing.  He  wondered  rather 
vaguely  why  this  gentle  expression  of  her  faith  in 
him  touched  him  so  little.  He  knew  he  was  glad — 
must  be  glad — and  yet  somehow  the  power  to  feel 
it  was  not  in  him.  Rosamond  lazily  picked  up  the 
sheet  of  paper  from  his  blotting-pad  and  read  it 
through. 

"What  is  this  youVe  been  writing?"  she  asked  in 
a  tone  of  surprise.  "You  dear  old  donkey,  it's 
awful  rubbish." 

"Yes,"  said  Norman,  wearily,  "it's  very  bad." 

"You  must  never  laugh  at  my  modistese  again," 
she  went  on  merrily,  "if  this  is  how  you  have  taken 
to  write  yourself." 

277 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

"Is  it  as  bad  as  that?"  said  he,  without  the  least 
intention  to  be  offensive. 

Again  she  shook  that  poor  head.  "Wretch!" 
she  exclaimed.  "At  any  rate,  tell  me  what  you 
mean  by  'expecionally'  ?" 

"Have  I  written  that?  'Exceptionally,'  I  sup- 
pose." 

"Or  'especially'?  Shall  I  alter  it?"  She  took 
Norman's  pen  in  her  hand,  still  sitting  on  his  knee, 
and  bent  over  the  table.  "Quickly,  which  is  it  to 
be?" 

"Either,"  said  Norman,  listlessly.  Why  couldn't 
he  think?  What  was  the  context?  Heavens! 
what  was  the  book  about? 

"  'Especially,'  then."  She  made  the  correction. 
"It  will  save  the  compositor  a  tremendous  lot  of 
anxiety,  won't  it?" 

She  nestled  back  into  his  arms.  "You're  not  up 
to  it,  Norman,"  she  said,  gently.  "What's  the 
good  of  trying  to  write  when  you're  so  tired? 
You'll  only  make  yourself  ill." 

"I  don't  feel  very  fit,"  said  Norman,  putting  his 
hand  to  his  head. 

"Of  course  you  don't."  She  caressed  him  softly. 
"You've  worn  yourself  out.  How  stupid  of  you 

278 


MR  AND   MRS   FILLIERS 

to  walk  about  all  night !  I  wouldn't  write  fiction  if 
it  made  me  do  things  of  that  kind."  She  gave  a 
little  laugh.  "Doing  dress  isn't  very  lofty,  per- 
haps, but  it  lets  you  sleep  at  night." 

"I  couldn't  do  dress,"  said  Norman,  quite  seri- 
ously. "Men  don't  wear  dresses.  And  what  they 
do  wear  they  find  out  about  somehow,  without  read- 
ing it  in  the  papers." 

Rosamond  pressed  his  head  into  the  laces  of  her 
bosom.  "Rest  there,  tired  head,"  she  said; 
then  blushed  and  laughed  a  little,  and  added  softly, 
"for  the  present." 

Norman  felt  easier  so.  That  rush  of  blood  to 
the  head  at  the  first  touch  of  Rosamond  had 
not  been  suffered  with  impunity.  Every  vein  in  it 
was  now  beating  like  a  sledge-hammer.  But  Rosa- 
mond's bosom  was  soft,  and  it  soothed  him  to  rest 
it  there.  If  that  could  have  been  his  eternal  pillow, 
from  which  his  throbbing  head  would  not  lift 
again,  he  would  peacefully,  gladly  have  accepted  it 
as  such. 

But  Rosamond  had  no  such  thoughts.  It  must 
be  said,  in  justice  to  her,  that  she  had  no'  concep- 
tion how  ill  he  was. 

"You  are  always  so  cheerless  here,"  she  said, 
279 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

looking  round;  "a  horrid  lamp,  and  no  fire,  and  no 
nice  chairs.  Let  us  go  into  my  room  and  be  com- 
fortable. You  shall  have  some  champagne  to  pick 
you  up." 

Norman  raised  his  head,  startled  back  to  realities 
by  a  sudden  anxiety,  a  sudden  remembrance.  "Oh, 
not  to-night,  dear,"  he  said,  quickly — pleading.  "I 
must  get  on.  I  can't  stop.  I've  only  thirty  days. 
'Thirty  days  hath  September — ' ' 

"Why!  what  on  earth  are  you  talking  about?" 
said  Rosamond,  half  laughing,  but  with  a  percep- 
tible note  of  latent  concern.  "Work,  you  old  goose ! 
You're  no  more  fit  to  work  than — well,  than  I  am 
just  now."  She  pressed  her  cheek  to  his  face.  The 
laugh  overcame  the  concern  and  took  that  moving 
note,  partly  joyous  and  partly  shy,  which  is 
woman's  highest  tribute  and  man's  sweetest  privi- 
lege. 

Norman  had  lost  the  thread  of  his  thoughts  and 
was  wearily  striving  to  pick  it  up  again. 

"What  a  solemn  old  stupid  you  are  to-night!" 
cried  Rosamond. 

Suddenly  she  sprang  from  him  with  a  gay,  chaff- 
ing ripple  of  laughter.  "Come,"  she  said. 

280 


Norman  slowly  turned  in  his  chair;  his  head 
lifted;  his  breath  came  fast. 

Rosamond,  mercy!  mercy! 

There  was  a  pause.  Norman's  hand  moved  un- 
certainly to  his  eyes.  He  no  longer  felt  his  head 
—it  had  dulled  into  painlessness — but  the  action 
of  turning  had  cast  a  black  mist  over  his  eyes,  hid- 
ing everything.  Then,  slowly,  the  mist  moved, 
swayed,  opened;  and  he  saw  Rosamond  like  a  pic- 
ture thrown  by  limelight  on  a  screen — superb; 
standing  at  her  full  height;  her  head  held  slightly 
back;  the  attitude  moulding  in  relief  every  line  and 
curve  of  her  beautiful  figure.  The  laces  at  her 
throat  had  fallen  away,  revealing  the  vale  of  her 
bosom.  Her  arms  were  hanging  a  little  forward 
and  open,  the  palms  turned  to  the  front.  She 
stretched  them  towards  him.  Then  she  smiled. 
"Come,"  she  said  again,  a  melting  softness  in  the 
lingering  tone. 

Perhaps  then,  at  last,  Rosamond  knew.  Perhaps 
in  that  final  moment — in  those  vaguely  moving 
hands — the  consciousness  of  what  she  was  doing 
broke  upon  her.  She  must  have  realised  it  before, 
had  not  the  lamp-shade  been  so  tilted  as  to  cast  the 
light  upon  the  manuscript  and  off  Norman's  face. 

281 


At  any  rate,  she  retreated  a  step  and  put  up  her 
hands  to  keep  him  back. 

It  was  too  late.  Norman  had  already  risen — his 
face  pale,  his  hands  trembling,  a  heavy  perspiration 
thick  on  his  brow.  For  an  instant  he  clung  to  the 
chair-back  for  support,  then  pushed  it  away  with 
such  force  that  it  fell  with  a  crash  on  the  floor.  In 
two  strides  he  crossed  the  space  that  separated  him 
from  Rosamond,  and  for  a  moment  clasped  her, 
strained  her  in  his  arms.  A  moment  only.  The 
next  he  had  tottered  and  fallen  forward,  almost 
dragging  her  with  him,  and  lay  huddled  on  the 
pale  green  carpet,  blood  pouring  from  his  mouth. 

Oh,  man,  man!  keep  away  your  meddling,  of- 
ficious hands!  Leave  these  things  to  God.  His 
eternal  justice  is  sure. 


282 


CHAPTER  XXV 

AND  His  eternal  mercy. 

For  six  weeks  Norman  Villiers  hung  on  the,brink 
of  the  unknown.  Most  of  those  heavy  days  were 
passed  in  darkness;  but  from  time  to  time  there  came 
gleams  of  semi-consciousness,  during  which  he  had 
fleeting  glimpses  of  passing  events  and  of  some 
people  who  interested  him.  There  was  a  tall  man 
with  a  big  nose  he  saw  occasionally,  who  wore 
glasses  and  couldn't  keep  his  long,  hard  fingers  off 
him.  He  had  a  quiet  voice.  He  knew  him  well 
enough;  he  was  one  of  his  old  schoolmasters;  but 
evidently  he  didn't  appreciate  the  fact  that  he  was 
no  longer  dealing  with  a  boy,  who  could  be 
squashed  and  ignored.  It  was  rather  absurd.  He 
should  have  to  tell  him  some  day. 

And  now  and  then  a  beautiful  woman  came,  with 
dark  hair  and  soft  dark  eyes,  who  wore  pretty 
dresses  and  generally  had  some  flowers.  He 
seemed  to  have  known  her  long  ago.  He  couldn't 

283 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

quite  remember  who  she  was.  And  then  there  were 
two  nurses  in  uniform,  who  hung  about  him  a  good 
deal  and  occasionally  rather  worried  him. 

Sometimes  they  appeared  to  be  nurses;  at  other 
times  they  seemed  to  be  friends  he  had  known  in 
the  past  and  forgotten,  or  had  thought  to  be  dead. 
One — the  elder  of  the  two — who  had  a  kind  face 
and  soft  hands,  particularly  troubled  him  at  first, 
because  of  the  strange  familiarity  of  her  features 
and  ways.  He  felt  inclined  to  laugh,  one  day, 
when  he  remembered  that  they  were  his  mother's, 
and  that  he  hadn't  recognised  her.  She,  too,  he  had 
supposed  to  be  dead.  She  was  very  gentle,  his 
mother.  Strange  that  he  had  thought  her  dead ! 
He  was  very  glad  to  find  he  was  wrong,  because  he 
had  sometimes  feared  that  he  hadn't  returned  her 
loving  acts  and  thoughts  as  he  should  have  done, 
and  now  he  could  make  up  for  it.  But  why  would 
she  persist  in  answering  him  as  though  he  were  a 
child  still,  talking  stupidly?  Didn't  she  know  he 
was  a  famous  man?  Hadn't  she  heard?  He 
would  make  her  understand.  Then  hands  were 
placed  over  him,  and  he  was  pressed  back  upon  his 
pillows,  and  the  darkness  returned. 

But  at  last  there  came  a  day — a  bright  morning 
284 


MR  AND   MRS   VILLIEES 

in  July — when  he  opened  sane  eyes  and  looked 
about  him.  It  was  his  own  room  at  Albany  Man- 
sions that  his  eyes  fell  upon — a  soft  breeze  stirring 
the  curtains  at  the  open  windows — and  not  the  bare 
little  bedroom  he  had  occupied  for  three  years  at 
school,  nor  yet  a  certain  heavily  hung  apartment 
of  an  old  country-house,  of  odd  shape  and  creepy 
suggestion,  in  which  he  had  once  slept  a  night. 
Though  there  was  every  indication  that  someone 
had  recently  been  with  him,  for  the  moment  he  was 
alone.  But  even  as  he  was  weakly  wondering  who 
it  could  have  been,  there  was  a  quick  rustle  of 
skirts  and  the  door  opened. 

Rosamond  came  in  like  a  beam  of  sunshine,  in  a 
light  summer  gown,  with  a  big  basket  of  roses  in 
her  hand.  She  walked  straight  across  to  the  win- 
dow, without  looking  at  him,  and  began  to  arrange 
the  flowers  in  a  bowl  of  water  standing  on  the  table 
beneath  it.  Presently  she  chanced  to  look  round 
and  met  his  eyes  watching  her.  She  stood  quite 
still,  two  roses  held  between  the  fingers  of  her  right 
hand.  Startled  gladness,  hope,  were  in  her  look, 
but  she  spoke  a  little  fearfully. 

"Norman,  do  you  know  me?  Do  you  know  me, 
dear?" 

285 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

"Of  course,  I  know  you,"  said  Norman.  "Could 
I  ever  forget  you,  Rosamond?" 

His  voice  was  weak,  and  somehow  the  sentiment 
didn't  ring  quite  true ;  but  the  words  were  rational 
enough  and  uttered  perfectly  calmly. 

Rosamond  took  a  quick  step  towards  him;  her 
hand  went  to  her  heart.  "Oh,  I'm  glad,"  she  said, 
"so  glad,  so  thankful  1" 

She  drew  a  chair  to  his  bedside  and  sat  down. 

"What  beautiful  roses!"  said  Norman.  He 
stretched  out  a  thin  hand  to  her.  "How  good  you 
have  been  to  me  I" 

"I  haven't,"  said  Rosamond.  She  took  the  hand 
in  her  left;  the  right  still  held  the  two  roses.  "I've 
been  to  see  you  occasionally  and  brought  you 
flowers.  That's  all." 

Norman  looked  at  some  needlework  and  an 
open  book  which  were  lying  on  a  small  table  by  the 
window. 

She  followed  the  direction  of  his  glance.  "They 
belong  to  one  of  the  nurses.  I  wasn't  born  to  be  a 
sister  of  charity,  Norman,"  she  said,  rather  con- 
tritely. "I'm  afraid  I  like  well  men  very  much 
better  than  sick  ones." 

A  sudden  thought  had  flashed  through  Norman. 
286 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

He  gripped  her  hand  with  all  the  feeble  strength 
he  had  left.  "Who  has  paid  for  the  nurses?"  he 
asked,  sharply.  "Who  has  paid  for  everything?" 

Rosamond  was  silent. 

He  struggled  wildly  to  raise  himself,  his  face 
burning.  "Rosamond!  Rosamond!" 

She  put  her  hands  upon  his  shoulders  and  easily 
forced  him  back  upon  the  pillows. 

"Don't  be  so  angry,"  she  said,  softly.  "You'll 
make  yourself  ill  again.  I  couldn't  let  you  die. 
And  you'll  be  able  to  pay  me  back  when  you're  bet- 
ter and  can  work.  Besides,  it  was  really  to  save 
myself  having  to  nurse  you.  I  don't  like  nursing." 

"You  couldn't  have  done  that  in  any  case,"  said 
Norman,  weakly,  pressing  his  head  into  the  pillow. 
He  had  no  strength  to  struggle.  "I've  been  much 
too  bad,  I  know  that.  I  fancy  I've  been  a  bit  de- 
lirious at  times.  You've  brought  me  back  to  life, 
dear.  For  that  I  am  your  debtor  always,  after  the 
money  has  been  repaid.  If  I'm  going  to  get  bet- 
ter," he  added,  with  a  tired  sigh. 

"Of  course,  you'll  get  better,"  said  Rosamond, 
quickly.  "You're  better  now." 

"More  or  less,"  said  Norman,  smiling  faintly. 
"How  long  have  I  been  unconscious?" 

287 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

"Nearly  six  weeks,"  she  replied. 

"As  long  as  that!  It  seems  only  a  few  days. 
What  a  nuisance  I  must  have  been!  What  does 
the  doctor  say  about  me?"  he  asked  suddenly. 

"That  you're  to  keep  quiet  and  get  well,"  said 
Rosamond.  She  began  rather  hastily  to  straighten 
the  coverings  upon  him. 

"Yes,  I  know  that,"  said  Norman,  not  to  be  put 
off.  "What  else?" 

Rosamond  didn't  answer  for  a  moment  or  two. 
Then  she  took  his  hand  again  and  looked  at  him 
calmly.  "He  says  if  you  are  careful  you  may  live 
to  be  an  old  man — " 

"Yes?" 

"That's  all,"  said  Rosamond,  firmly. 

"It's  not  all,"  said  Norman.  "Didn't  he  say, 
by  any  chance,  that  I  had  broken  down  too  badly  to 
travel  above  the  legal  pace  again?" 

"He  thinks  you  may  always  be — " 

"A  semi-invalid?"  said  Norman. 

Rosamond  said  nothing,  and  after  a  pause  Nor- 
man added:  "Well,  we  have  lived,  dear.  I  don't 
repine.  I've  had  my  day." 

Rosamond  bowed  her  head.    "It  was  my  fault," 

she  said. 

288 


MR  AND  MRS  FILLIERS 

"No,  no."  He  stroked  her  hand  with  one 
whiter  than  hers.  "I  ate  too  much  of  the  cake,  it 
was  so  good,  and  it  has  given  me  indigestion."  He 
tried  to  laugh,  but  the  effort  was  too  great,  and  he 
settled  himself  wearily  upon  the  pillows. 

There  was  a  long  silence.  A  nurse  came  in  and, 
finding  her  patient  conscious,  gave  him  some  food 
out  of  a  spoon.  He  took  it  meekly.  Then,  caution- 
ing Rosamond  not  to  let  him  talk  too  much,  she  left 
them  alone  again. 

Rosamond  had  something  to  say,  however,  which 
she  thought  would  conduce  to  the  ultimate  benefit 
of  his  health  far  more  than  present  silence.  She 
fondled  his  hand  for  a  few  moments. 

"Norman,  may  I  write  to  your  wife?"  she  said 
abruptly. 

A  trembling  hope  flickered  for  a  moment  in  Nor- 
man's heavy  eyes  and  then  died  out  again,  like  the 
distant  flash  of  a  search-light  on  the  sea. 

Rosamond  saw  it  and  it  gave  her  a  stab,  but  she 
stuck  bravely  to  her  purpose.  "Don't  think  I'm 
suggesting  it  because  I'm  tired  of  you  and  want  to 
get  rid  of  you  now  that  you're  ill,"  she  went  on 
quickly;  "though  it  looks  like  it,"  she  added,  with 
a  laugh  that  was  half  a  sob.  "It's  not  that,  dear." 

289 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

She  snatched  up  his  wasted  hand  and  pressed  it 
closely,  tenderly,  to  her  lips.  "Night  after  night, 
and  day  after  day,  since  you've  been  ill,  I've 
thought  about  you — about  you  both — and  the 
future.  And  she  is  still  willing  to  take  you  back." 

"How  do  you  know  that?"  said  Norman, 
quickly. 

She  shook  her  head  at  him  a  little  wistfully. 
"You're  very  willing  to  go,  dear,"  she  said.  "I've 
no  reason  for  knowing,  except  the  feminine  one: 
because  I  do.  But  you  can  trust  it  in  this  case; 
it's  founded  on  observation,  and  intuition,  and  on 
something  else,  perhaps,  that  it  isn't  necessary  to 
mention."  Again  that  little  laugh  that  was  caught 
in  her  throat.  "I  assure  you,  it's  quite  a  sound 


one." 


Norman  sank  back  with  a  sigh — he  had  strained 
a  little  upward.  "She  has  not  been  here,  then,  or 
written?" 

"I  don't  think  she  knows." 

He  closed  his  eyes  wearily  and  then  opened  them 
again.  "I  can't  ask  her,  Rosamond,"  he  said;  "it's 
out  of  the  question.  What  have  I  to  offer?"  He 
looked  at  his  hands.  "A  wreck :  a  husband  to  nurse, 
more  or  less,  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  Besides,  she 

290 


MR  AND  MRS   VILLIERS 

is  suing  for  divorce.  Has  anything  been  done? 
Has  the  case  been  heard?" 

"Yes,  the  case  has  been  heard,"  said  Rosamond, 
"and  an  order  has  been  made  against  you  for  resti- 
tution of  conjugal  rights."  She  checked  a  sigh,  and 
added  brightly:  "Really,  Norman,  I  think  you 
ought  to  obey  the  order  of  the  Court." 

"That  is  only  a  legal  fiction,"  said  Norman.  "I 
rejected  her  when  I  was  well  and  prosperous.  I 
can't  ask  her  to  take  the  remains  of  me  now — an 
invalid  who  could  be  nothing  but  a  burden." 

Rosamond  said  no  more.  He  was  too  weak  to 
be  further  urged  just  then.  Already  the  strain  of 
the  conversation  had  plainly  told  upon  his  small 
reserve  of  strength. 

The  two  roses  she  had  been  holding  in  her  hand 
when  she  first  found  him  conscious  had  fallen  on 
the  bed.  One  was  deep  pink,  with  very  large 
smooth  petals;  the  other,  a  delicate  shell-pink  tea- 
rose.  Rosamond  picked  them  up  again. 

"Where  did  you  get  all  these  marvellous  roses?" 
said  Norman,  looking  from  her  to  the  bowl.  "I 
never  saw  such  beauties." 

"I  had  to  go  to  the  Temple  Show  yesterday," 
she  replied,  "to  look  at  the  dresses;  so  I  bought 

291 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

them  for  you;  they  took  a  first  prize.  I  don't 
wonder."  She  pressed  the  two  in  her  hand  to  her 
face.  "I  love  them.  Especially  this."  She  held 
up  the  larger,  deep-coloured  one.  "  'Mrs  W.  J. 
Grant/  Isn't  she  magnificent?  You  shall  have 
her  beside  you." 

She  took  a  glass  from  the  mantelpiece  and  filled 
it  with  water;  then  placed  it,  with  the  rose  in  it,  on 
a  small  table  at  his  bedside. 

"I'm  going  to  steal  the  other  one,"  she  an- 
nounced, "and  wear  it  to  celebrate  your  recovery. 
What  is  it  called?"  She  looked  at  the  name  on  it. 
'  'Maman  Cochet.'  Oh,  mamma,  you're  very 
pretty;  much  too  pretty,  mammal" 

She  pinned  it  in  her  bodice. 

"And  now  for  a  pilgrimage  of  the  shops,"  she 
said,  with  a  small  grimace.  "Oh,  how  I  hate 
them !" 

She  turned  at  the  door  to  look  back  at  him 
brightly.  "Be  good.  Obey  the  nurses.  And  no 
more  attempts  to  sit  up,  please."  She  included  the 
glowing  rose  in  a  final  smiling  glance.  "  'Mrs  W. 
J.  Grant'  is  my  substitute  till  I  return." 


293 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

AFTER  Rosamond  left  him  Norman  slept  for 
some  hours.  When  he  awoke  late  in  the  afternoon, 
he  was  aware,  even  before  his  eyes  were  quite  open, 
that  there  was  someone  in  the  room — a  woman 
seated  by  the  window,  bending  over  some  work.  He 
supposed  it  was  Rosamond. 

Was  it  Rosamond?  Slight,  sloping  shoulders 
demurely  bent,  brown  hair  pulled  back  from  a  thin, 
white  brow  to  a  big  roll  behind,  a  small  pointed 
profile,  two  earnest  eyes  calmly  intent  upon  their 
work?  Norman  looked  and  looked,  and  his  heart 
beat  an  answer  to  the  question.  He  waited  in 
silence,  drinking  long,  grateful  drafts  from  the 
spring  of  renewed  life  and  hope,  almost  afraid  the 
figure  would  look  up  and  break  the  spell. 

At  last  he  spoke.  "Is  that  Marjorie?"  he  said, 
in  a  voice  that  was  still  the  ghost  of  what  it  had 
been,  "or  an  angel  from  heaven?" 


MR   AND   MRS   VILLIERS 

Marjorie  got  up.  "It's  not  an  angel,  Norman," 
she  said,  "so  I  suppose  it  must  be  Marjorie." 

"How  good  of  you  to  come !"  was  all  he  could 
say. 

"Of  course  I've  come,"  said  Marjorie.  "I  should 
have  come  long  ago  if  I'd  known.  I  only  heard 
this  morning.  Mr  Thornton  found  out  by  acci- 
dent and  wrote  and  told  James.  He  pretended  he 
wanted  him  to  go  and  play  golf,  and  mentioned 
your  illness  as  a  sort  of  something  to  fill  up.  I  al- 
ways liked  Mr  Thornton,"  she  added,  inconse- 
quently. 

"So  did  I,"  said  Norman. 

Marjorie  bent  over  him  to  smooth  his  pillows, 
keeping  her  face  hidden.  "We  must  see  more  of 
him  when  you're  better,"  she  said. 

There  was  scarcely  a  perceptible  change  in  her 
voice.  Norman  could  not  speak.  And  when  Mar- 
jorie had  at  length  completed  the  adjustment  of  the 
pillows,  which  appeared  to  have  got  into  rather 
troublesome  disarray,  she  saw  tears  standing  in  each 
of  his  eyes.  Her  heart  leapt :  she  could  have  sung, 
shouted.  One  would  have  guessed  it  as  little,  as 
that  she  had  prolonged  her  previous  manipulation 
for  his  comfort  because  she  dreaded  to  seek  in  his 


MR  AND   MRS   FILLIERS 

face  the  answer  to  the  most  momentous  question  of 
her  life.  Now  that  the  field  was  won  after  so  many 
weary  months,  she  danced  on  her  joy,  played  with 
it,  with  a  face  which  reflected  but  the  faintest  gleam 
of  that  inward  revel. 

"Norman,  the  Court  has  ordered  you  to  return 
to  me,"  she  said,  severely.  "Do  you  know  that?" 

Norman  admitted  that  an  echo  of  such  a  sentence 
had  reached  his  ears. 

"Do  you  intend  to  obey  it?  It's  a  serious  affair 
to  disobey  the  Court,  you  know." 

He  stretched  out  his  two  thin  hands  to  her. 
"Marjorie,  Marjorie,  will  you  let  me  obey  it,  after 
all?" 

She  dropped  on  her  knees  by  his  bedside.  "I 
would  let  you,"  she  said,  softly,  "if  fifty  years  had 
gone  past  since  you  went  away,  and  you  were  an 
old  man  with  furrows  on  your  face" — she  traced 
the  hypothetical  lines  with  her  finger — "and  all 
this  hair  was  white."  She  tenderly  brushed  the 
straggling  strands  from  his  forehead  and  then, 
bending  over,  touched  it  softly  with  her  lips. 

"But  you  know,"  said  Norman,  "you  know, 
dear,  you  are  doing  a  wretched  bad  deal  with  for- 
tune. She  offers  you  freedom  and  a  fresh  start,  and 

295 


MR  AND   MRS   FILLIERS 

you  come  back  to  an  invalid.  The  doctor  says  I 
shall  always  be  pretty  much  of  a  crock." 

"What  do  I  care?"  cried  Marjorie.  She  spread 
her  arms  over  him.  "I  shall  give  up  my  life  to 
nursing  you  and  taking  care  of  you  and  bringing 
you  back  to  health." 

Norman  laid  his  hand  on  her  head.  "I  think  it 
was  an  angel  that  came,"  he  said  softly. 

They  talked  for  a  long  time  in  low  tones.  They 
had  such  a  lot  to  say.  It  was  a  conversation  in  re- 
gard to  which  it  is  only  possible  to  record,  from  the 
far  corner  of  the  room  to  which  we  have  discreetly 
retreated,  that  it  was  punctuated  with  a  good  many 
"hushes"  from  Marjorie,  when  her  husband 
showed  signs  of  unduly  exerting  himself.  She 
knew  he  ought  not  to  be  talking  at  all,  but  those 
eight  months  had  been  such  heavy  ones,  and  how 
could  she  help  it? 

At  last  she  jumped  up,  struck  by  a  sudden 
thought,  blank  contrition  on  her  face,  which  hardly 
admitted  the  smile  beneath.  "Oh,  dear,  I've  for- 
gotten all  about  James  and  the  children !  He  was 
going  to  take  them  for  a  drive  and  then  call  for 
me."  She  went  to  the  window  and  put  her  head 

296 


MR  AND   MRS   FILLIERS 

out.  "There  they  are !  Poor  darlings,  I  wonder 
how  long  they've  been  waiting?" 

"Does  that  include  James?"  said  Norman,  with 
a  smile. 

Marjorie  hurried  to  the  door  and  down  the  steps. 
A  cab  was  drawn  up  outside,  and  James  was  stand- 
ing on  the  pavement  talking  to  the  commissionnaire. 

"I  want  you  to  go  and  get  me  some  things,"  she 
said,  breathlessly.  "I'm  not  going  back." 

Then  James  did  an  astonishing  thing.  He  took 
her  whole-heartedly  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her. 
Which  was  rather  embarrassing  to  poor  Marjorie, 
seeing  that  he  hadn't  so  honoured  her  since  her 
wedding  day,  particularly  as  the  cabman  was 
glancing  over  his  shoulder,  and  the  commission- 
naire wasn't  glancing  over  his  shoulder  at  all,  but 
staring  straight  at  them. 

"A  bottle  of  '63  to-night,"  he  said,  joyously; 
"and  it's  your  fault  if  I  suffer  for  it." 

"Oh,  dear,  I  hope  you  won't,"  said  Marjorie, 
almost  with  genuine  concern.  "I  want  the  chil- 
dren." 

The  two  little  ladies  were  sitting  side  by  side  on 
the  small  seat  of  the  cab,  with  their  backs  to  the 
horse,  their  diminutive  toes  dangling;  quietly  talk- 

297 


MR  AND  MRS   FILLIERS 

ing  together  in  that  wonderful,  serious  way  that 
children  have  of  talking  when  left  to  themselves, 
and  now  and  then  digging  inquisitive,  speculative 
fingers  into  sundry  parcels  that  strewed  their  laps 
and  the  seat  opposite.  A  drive  with  Uncle  James 
was  an  event  which  obviously  contained  many  in- 
teresting possibilities. 

"What  are  all  those  parcels?"  said  Marjorie. 

"Groceries,"  said  James,  mendaciously:  "odds 
and  ends  for  Marion.  Can't  you  keep  that  whip 
still?"  he  yelled  to  the  cabman,  who  was  harmlessly 
flicking  his  horse.  "Is  the  poor  beast  never  to  be 
free  from  it,  even  when  he's  standing  still?" 

Marjorie  got  the  children  out  of  the  cab  and  ran 
upstairs  with  them,  holding  one  by  each  hand.  Her 
own  steps  felt  so  light  that  she  forgot  their  small 
feet;  and  so,  by  the  time  they  reached  the  second 
floor,  the  little  people  were  sadly  out  of  breath. 
She  hugged  them  in  turn  to  make  up  for  her 
thoughtlessness,  straightened  their  hats,  and  then 
took  them  with  her  into  Norman's  room. 

They  ran  towards  him  joyfully. 

"Oh,  Daddy!"  cried  the  elder.  "Poor  Daddy! 
Good  Daddy!" 

"No,  darlings,"  said  the  invalid,  quietly,  taking 
298 


MR  AND   MRS   FILLIERS 

a  hand  of  each.  "Poor  Daddy,  if  you  will  have  it 
so,  but  not  good  Daddy — as  long  as  you  live." 

Marjorie  didn't  let  them  stay  long.  After  a  few 
minutes  she  took  them  down  again,  chattering 
volubly,  and  packed  them  in  the  cab  with  James — 
a  happy  party.  During  the  drive  home  the  latter 
employed  the  intervals  of  congratulating  himself 
upon  his  success  in  bringing  about  a  joyful  denoue- 
ment with  which  he  had  had  nothing  whatever  to 
do,  in  working  himself  into  an  ungovernable  rage, 
with  which  adequately  to  meet  the  situation  which 
he  foresaw  when  the  children  triumphantly  opened 
their  parcels  before  Marion. 

After  she  had  seen  the  cab  drive  away  Marjorie 
ascended  the  stairs  again;  but  this  time  without 
hurry,  peacefully,  with  a  deep  content  in  her  heart. 
It  gave  her  a  shock  to  remember  it  was  the  same 
flight  she  had  mounted  with  such  different  feelings 
seven  months  before,  clad  in  the  cream  cloth  gown 
and  ostrich  plumes  which  had  proved  so  sadly  in- 
efficacious. 

Norman  found  it  very  delicious,  when  she  re- 
turned to  his  room,  to  renew  acquaintance  with  her 
easy,  tranquil  method  of  going  about  the  affairs 
of  life;  to  observe  the  unobtrusive  but  confident  air 

299 


MR  AND   MRS   VILLIERS 

which  which  she  assumed  control  of  the  sick-room, 
giving  orders  to  the  nurses  quietly  and  as  a  matter 
of  course,  as  if  she  had  engaged  them  herself. 
Thinking  of  the  nurses,  it  crossed  his  mind,  with  a 
private  chuckle,  that  he  should  have  to  ask  her  to 
draw  him  a  considerable  cheque  before  long.  He 
knew  precisely  how  she  would  do  it:  with  as  little 
concern  and  as  little  question  as  she  would  write 
an  order  for  the  stores;  and  that  an  hour  or  two 
afterwards  it  would  occur  to  her  to  ask  him  what 
it  was  for. 

In  much  the  same  way,  it  did,  presently,  occur 
to  her  to  refer  to  another  subject. 

"What  a  splendid  lot  of  roses  you've  got!"  she 
said.  "Where  did  they  come  from?" 

Norman  made  no  response;  and  perhaps  she 
guessed.  At  any  rate,  she  didn't  press  the  ques- 
tion. 

"I  don't  like  imperial  pink,"  she  said,  glancing 
at  the  large  flower  by  his  bedside.  "It's  not  at  all 
soothing.  I'll  get  you  another  to  look  at." 

She  dipped  her  fingers  among  the  perfumed  mass 
in  the  bowl,  and,  after  a  little  hesitation,  picked  out 
a  pure  white  tea. 

"Isn't  it  lovely?"  she  said,  holding  it  up.  "It 
300 


MR  AND  MRS   V1LLIERS 

has  its  name  on  it:     'Innocente  Pirola.'    What  an 
appropriate  one!" 

Norman  watched  her  in  silence  while  she  took 
away  the  pink  rose  and  put  the  white  one  in  its 
place. 


THE  END 


THE   YOKE 

BY  HUBERT   WALES 


London  Daily  Chronicle. — "The  story  is  extremely 
well  written,  the  characterisation  admirable.  Mr. 
Wales  sees  some  things  that  other  men  fail  to  see, 
and  says  a  good  many  things  about  which  other  men 
maintain  a  strict  reserve." 

,-:    x 

London  Daily  Telegraph.— "Some  people  may  con- 
sider the  book  'unpleasant,'  but,  however  that  may  be, 
it  is  a  fair  and  legitimate  study  of  temperaments,  the 
working  put  of  a  problem  by  no  means  rare  in  real 
life.  If  it  had  been  badly  done  it  would  certainly 
have  been  an  unpleasant  book,  but  it  is  well  done." 
&  J* 

The  Taller.— "What  I  said  about  'Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Villiers'  some  months  ago  I  repeat  about  'The  Yoke.' 
But  the  latter  is  more  than  a  'notable  book';  it  is 
one  of  striking  skill,  both  in  plot  and  characterisa- 
tion, and  assures  Mr.  Hubert  Wales  that  front-rank 
place  among  contemporary  novelists  for  which  he 
has  made  so  bold  a  bid.  There  is  no  inane  idealism 
about  'The  Yoke.'  Its  intense  human  interest  will 
be  the  key  to  its  success." 

jit    j* 

London  Times. — "It  is  a  strong  and  poignant  story; 
it  can  be  recommended  because  of  its  obvious  sin- 
cerity." 

J*    „* 

Bystander "Mr.     Hubert     Wales's     object     is 

straightforward  psychology,  and  he  gives  us  emo- 
tions in  original  combinations.  Mr.  Wales  shows 
marked  power  in  his  treatment  of  the  various  cli- 
maxes." 

Jt    j* 

Aberdeen  Press.— "Mr.  Wales  is  a  clever  chef. 
What  might  have  been  an  extremely  unpleasant 
book  he  has  transformed,  by  his  extreme  lucid  naive 
style,  his  wit,  powers  of  observance,  and  his  grace- 
ful air,  into  a  remarkably  interesting  one — one  that 
leaves  no  bad  taste  in  the  mouth." 


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DUE  2  WKS  mi  mi  RECEIVED 

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DECEIVED 


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THE   STUYVESANT   PRESS 

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